Not Close Enough
by Camillo
Summary: Harry tries to teach Ruth a lesson about truth and how close they could be. Spoilers for seasons 8 and 9 from the outset.
1. Chapter 1

Harry tries to teach Ruth a lesson about truth and how close they could be. Spoilers for seasons 8 and 9 from the outset.

A few notes:

Given the tone of a lot of Spooks fic out there, it might seem to some people as if Harry is a bit out of character. However, I like to bear in mind that this is a man who occasionally decides that a few civilian deaths are necessary "for the greater good". If he decided he had to get a point across, I don't think he'd hold back. I might write more of this if I get the chance and I don't get flamed!

Set after episode 1 of series 9, with a plot that is complete nonsense, this is rated M for a number of reasons. Please don't read if you're offended by strong language or very explicit imagery. The usual disclaimers apply.

**Not Close Enough**

Stubbornly fighting MI5's operational target of a paperless office environment by the end of 2010, Ruth flipped open a spiral-bound notebook, clicked her pen and looked up expectantly.

'James Hackett is relatively new on the scene,' Harry explained. 'But in Whitehall, his name keeps being murmured politely. The Home Secretary is five minutes late and it's because James Hackett needed a word. The Prime Minister wasn't informed of events until lunchtime because he was in a meeting with Hackett. The man has come from nowhere, wriggled his way into Downing Street with an alarming lack of noise and is happily turning himself into some sort of Mandelson-Campbell hybrid!'

Ruth shuddered. Harry gave her an eyes-only smile of complete understanding, leant forwards and lowered his voice to seduction level.

'So tell me, who is he and what does he want?'

'I-I don't know much. Yet. He's grammar school educated and he got a first at Durham in Economics. Then he seems to have travelled a bit. Mostly southern Africa and South America. He even did a stint with Operation Raleigh.'

One blonde eyebrow shifted. 'Very Prince William. What next?'

'A Masters degree in 2001. Economic history at the LSE. His thesis is on economic wellbeing and warfare. He tracks the proportion of numerous countries' government budgets devoted to the military over time, and links those changes to their political and social contexts. He also looks at military activity and the financial markets. Essentially, he concludes that a country's historical military activity is reflected in its future economic cycles, and crucially, the way each nation responds to financial crisis. Its... well it's a _really_ good read!'

'Oh dear.'

Ruth looked personally offended. She loved it when other people had brains and used them effectively. 'Oh dear? Why?'

'Because his opinion might legitimately carry some weight and people like that are always harder to predict and manage.'

'Manage?'

Harry frowned impatiently. 'He's unelected and could be the most powerful political animal in the UK. If he has an agenda that goes beyond maintaining the coalition of course he'll need managing.'

'Oh dear.'

'I need more than his curriculum vitae. I need to know the dirt. Loves, hates, sweet dreams and nightmares, Ruth. You've got until tomorrow lunchtime.'

She pretended to sigh about it.

* * *

At eight o'clock that evening, utterly absorbed in the life of an attractive and startlingly intelligent man, Ruth wouldn't have noticed her mobile phone ringing except for the fact that it was the special ring tone she'd set for Harry Pearce. A loud and annoying buzz that set her teeth on edge and never failed to make her chest tighten inside. 'I'm downstairs waiting for you,' he barked. 'More precisely, my driver Mike is waiting and it's his wife's birthday today. If he gets home by nine with a Chinese takeaway and a bottle of Moët he'll be okay. Otherwise, things will be rather difficult.'

'You're a ruthless bastard.'

'Currently ruthless in more ways than one. I hope you've shut down your computer by now.'

'James Hackett.'

'What about him?'

'He's not easy to pin down, Harry.'

The smirk at the other end of the call was tangible. 'Oh, Ruth. You know I have complete faith in you. Sharing Special Chow Mein with me tonight won't stop you from knowing everything there is to know about Hackett tomorrow.'

Ten minutes later, Ruth was only slightly surprised to find herself standing in a posh City off-licence, choosing a bottle of champagne. Through the window of the shop, she could see Harry across the road, sitting on a plastic chair next to a fish tank, flicking dismissively through a copy of the _Sun_ newspaper and waiting for the takeaway he'd ordered.

Mike was waiting patiently in the car, which was parked on double yellow lines. She opened the door and climbed back in with one bottle-sized gift bag and one bottle wrapped in off-licence tissue paper.

'Here's a bottle of Moët,' she explained, passing over the paper-wrapped bottle. 'Tell your wife that your boss gave it to you as a birthday present for her.' She held up the gift bag. 'This is a bottle of Krug Grande Cuvée. Tell your wife that you've heard it's really nice and you wanted to get it for her.'

Mike looked slightly appalled. 'Thanks, Miss Evershed. Um, how much was it?'

'Don't worry. It's about a hundred quid, so you wouldn't be risking your mortgage. But I'm going to explain to Harry that he's paying for both bottles.'

Clearly relieved, Mike grinned. 'Rather you than me.'

She grinned back. 'And please just call me Ruth.'

Given that Ruth's flatmate was Section Nine's latest recruit, she was appalled to find that they were heading for her place and not Harry's. She lived close enough to Clapham Common to say Clapham to taxi drivers, had settled into her new home surprisingly well, and quietly resented having to share the space with a cocky blonde who was both female and incredibly nosy.

'No secrets on the Grid,' Harry said calmly as soon as he felt her tense up and turn towards him. 'It's the most truthful place for us, remember?'

'But _Beth!_ Christ almighty, she'll have a field day!'

'Exactly. Everybody on the Grid will know everything there is to know about us. And as we're having Chinese food, not tantric sex, there's not a lot to tell.'

It wasn't fair. He'd taken her words and twisted them into something ridiculous. 'As if that'll make a difference!'

'Well if that's the case, I vote that after dinner we have a crack at expanded orgasm.'

Harry gazed at her intently. Despite the gloom of the car's interior and the brevity of street light illumination she knew his eyes had involuntarily darkened with excitement. She was speechless. Furious. Frustrated. More than slightly aroused by the thought of any orgasm, let alone one that was _extended_. Hers at his hands... his at hers... both together... it took a fraction of a second to picture all sorts of scenarios in her mind's eye and squeeze her thighs together reflexively.

'From now on, Ruth, our life together will be acted out on one stage,' Harry continued much less enthusiastically. 'The place you've chosen.'

She turned on him with wide eyes and tears in her voice. 'How could you miss the point so completely?'

'How could you listen to my offer of _marriage_ and tell me you'd rather work together. Did you expect me to be pleased?'

'It's not like that! I told you. If we were married, we wouldn't be able to know each other the way we do now! I want more of you, not less!'

Harry slapped a palm down on the leather seat between them with enough force to still her completely. 'For fuck's sake, woman! I'm a section head of MI5 and you're an intelligence officer. The things I know about that you _don't_ know about – are not _allowed_ to know about – would fill a novel-length book. Did it ever occur to you that I want a relationship of equality? That at the moment, no matter how much we trust each other, at work I am your superior, there is a chain of command and I hate its influence on us almost as much as I love you?'

When they got to her flat it was twenty to nine. Mike dared to shoot her a single pleading glance as he opened the car door for her and waited to see if she stormed off without Harry. Absolutely horrified that he'd witnessed the entire conversation, she gazed heavenward, took a deep breath and nodded slightly to reassure him.

Dinner was uncomfortable. In Ruth's opinion, it ranked right up there with early morning boat rides and spending time in the boot of a car. Beth took one look at them, set three places at the kitchen table, opened a bottle of Chardonnay and did her best to fill in the awkward silences whilst eating most of the food. At ten-thirty, Harry called a cab and came perilously close to stomping his feet on the way out.

* * *

Bang on noon the following day, Harry opened the door of his office and snapped her name. She saved the file she'd been working on, attached it to an email entitled "Initial report JH" and clicked Send. Then she moved onto the next item on her to do list with a deliberate lack of pause.

Three minutes later, Harry opened the door of his office again and spoke with an air of long-suffering, 'A hundred and seventy-four pages? I'd like an oral summary. Now, Ruth. Please?'

'There isn't a lot to tell,' Ruth admitted grumpily as she sat down. 'He worked as a business analyst for two years after getting his Masters, but jacked it in to work for a lower salary at an NGO before being appointed as a political advisor. He isn't a member of any political party and never has been. He's never been arrested, he's never been flagged and he's never gone over his overdraft limit. He has one credit card with about three thousand pounds owing, mostly spent in shops that sell men's clothing. A tailor where he bought a decent suit and that sort of thing. He lives in Wimbledon in a one bedroom flat that he's rented for the last six years.'

'Christ, he's too normal. Too small. How the hell did he meet the PM?'

'When he was at the LSE, Hackett gave a paper at the British Economics Society annual conference. The PM was there and a newly elected MP. Probably still figuring out his political identity. They've been acquaintances ever since. They've never been close, or we probably would have looked at him before, but every now and then it seems they've met. It looks like the PM has asked for advice or information. I have no idea what about, and there's nothing written anywhere, so no means of finding out more.'

'What about his relationships?'

'He's a single child. Phone calls to and from both of his parents' mobiles as well as their home indicate that he gets on well with both of them. He's been single for over a year after splitting up with a girlfriend he'd had since his final year at Durham. They used to live together in Wimbledon and before that they lived together in various shared houses in cheaper parts of London. With teachers and newly qualified doctors. Someone in marketing, someone who is now a moderately famous clothes designer.'

'There's nothing odd at all?'

'His ex-girlfriend, Sally, is a maths teacher. She had an affair with the deputy head and left James for him. They're married now. When she moved out, James took two weeks off work and went home to his parents. I think he must have been devastated.'

'You like him.'

It wasn't a question. Ruth's eyes focussed on something far beyond the carmine wall of Harry's office.

'Yes I do. Soon after he got back to London, the PM met him. The PM was leader of the opposition and under the usual level of observation. He had James to dinner at his home. A week later, James was commissioned by the PM's _at the time_ unofficial election campaign team to write a series of reports on both the international and domestic economic situations. The reports' contents can easily be linked to the government's current economic policy.'

'Do you think it was a personal favour? Do you think the PM felt _sorry_ for Hackett and gave him something to occupy his mind?'

Ruth smiled wryly. 'That's the sort of thing I would do. I don't know. There's something about James Hackett that the PM wanted and now depends on. And I think there was already a decent level of trust and respect.'

Harry sat back in his chair, folded his hands across his stomach and twiddled his thumbs. 'I'm going to have to meet this paragon.'

'I'd like to meet him, actually,' Ruth admitted. 'Just to see if such a person is possible in Downing Street. We've got no record of him even _voting _in the past!'

'You're not just interested because you fancy him a bit?'

She smiled again, not entirely sweetly. 'He's a good-looking chap. He's clever. He's single and he's potentially trustworthy and honest with the country's best interests at heart. What a lovely prospect! It's a shame I'm at least five years too old for him and not nearly beautiful enough.'

Harry's posture changed infinitesimally, but it was enough to tell Ruth that she'd riled him. 'You're entirely too beautiful,' he replied. 'Beautiful enough to make me lose my heart completely and my temper far too often.'

'Harry—'

He bent forwards and fixed her with an unavoidable gaze. 'I'm nearly 57. In my prime I dallied with top Parisian totty, and the effect it had on me was _nothing_ compared to how I feel now!'

'_Harry__—_'

'At your behest, there will be no secrets between us on the Grid, Ruth. We say everything we need to say right here. I had a dream last night. I dreamed you were naked in my bed and practically writhing with pleasure. I was performing cunnilingus on you and I'd already made you come twice. Jesus, Ruth. You were wet and you were begging for me.'

She jumped up from her chair and hugged herself, turning on the spot in an agony of embarrassment. 'Harry,_ please__!_'

He stood and walked towards her, the light of all out war in his eyes. 'I woke up as sticky as a teenaged boy and burst into tears when I realised it was just a dream. Don't tell me that you're not beautiful enough, and don't you _dare_ tell me that we're closer now than we would be if we were married. We bloody well aren't close enough for me!'

* * *

The following week, James Hackett led Harry Pearce into a small and slightly grubby Whitehall office.

'I've borrowed this from the Culture Secretary,' he explained apologetically. 'I just about have a desk at Number 10 but I share it with three other people and I was told you won't visit there anyway.'

'Not I,' Harry agreed cheerfully. 'It's too well watched for the likes of me.'

'Are you really here to give me a standard security briefing? The girl who called to make the appointment told me it was perfectly normal and nothing to worry about, but you seem a bit more, um, _authoritative_ than I was expecting.'

'I'm the head of counter-terrorism at MI5. You've found your way onto our radar and we need to know you're not planning to bring the government down from the inside.'

'Blimey. I wasn't expecting that either.'

'Really?' said Harry, affably gesturing that they sit down. 'I wonder why on earth not?'

Hackett sat down behind the desk, rested an elbow on the battered surface and his chin on his hand. He looked genuinely puzzled. 'But I'm just another political advisor. I'm not very important, you know.'

'The girl who called to make the appointment is my senior intelligence analyst. She knows more about you than your family and friends combined. She doesn't think you're unimportant. She thinks you're responsible for our current economic policy. She thinks you're the Prime Minister's sounding board. She _likes_ you.'

'Is that bad?'

Harry snorted. 'Not if you stop playing silly buggers with me and not if you behave yourself. I don't mind if you screw up, and the government with you, as long as you _think_ you're doing the right thing. But one whiff of sabotage and you're finished.'

All of a sudden, Hackett seemed to deflate. To open himself up for examination. Harry breathed a silent sigh of relief. 'Fuck me,' Hackett muttered. 'You're serious.'

'Of course.'

'I'm doing the best job I know how to and currently my only agenda is to not look like a frightened rabbit the whole time.'

'Go on.'

'I'm a rookie. A rank amateur with no political nous whatsoever. The PM asks me to research things and write an unbiased summary. He calls it an evidence base. Nowadays the Left are splitting between centre right and far left, the Centre is on the left and the Right is going further right in sheer frustration. The government is a patchwork of divided political beliefs and the Cabinet has to try and make decisions without arguing over everything for days.'

'Welcome to European-style government.'

'I know! It would be amusing if it wasn't so scary. Anyway, that's where I come in. To save time, I provide an unbiased evidence base and they all agree to work from that. The Prime Minister suggested me to the Deputy Prime Minister. He then had me checked out and interviewed. Four times. The last time he was actually on the interview panel.'

'I see.'

'Really. It's hard work, but the way I see it, somebody has to do it, and at the moment I don't know of anyone better than me.'

'Did you vote?'

'No, and I never have done. Surely there's a way of checking that?'

'There is.'

'So why did you ask?'

'I want to see what it's like when I know you're telling the truth.'

'Oh. Well, none of the major parties inspired me with confidence and none of the minor ones spoke for me either. '

'My intelligence officer thinks you're currently recovering from a broken heart. She thinks that you were very upset when Sally left.'

Hackett looked dismayed. 'You have no right! What business is that of yours?'

'You're not denying it.'

'How can I?'

'What happened?'

'I didn't ask her to marry me. We were together for more than a decade and it was apparently too long and not enough. I thought we were _happy_.'

Harry couldn't help it. He burst out laughing.

'What the hell?' Hackett exclaimed furiously.

'I'm sorry. I shouldn't. I don't usually... It's just that she won't marry me!' Harry gasped. 'Apparently there's no need to and we're fine as we are!'

'Who?' Hackett asked, head tilting with interest despite himself. Then his eyes widened in understanding. 'Oh, God. Your intelligence officer. Who likes me.'

They exchanged a glance of mutual understanding so universal as to be an utter cliché.

'I'm beginning to think it was bollocks,' Hackett said after a pause. 'I think she wanted more sex and better sex and eventually she went out and got it. I've since observed that the problems in people's relationships seem to sort themselves out much more easily when they're busy falling into bed all the time and only with each other.'

'Perhaps you're right,' Harry replied.

'Good luck with finding out.'

Harry stood up and carefully picked a piece of lint off his coat sleeve. 'Thank you. It was nice to meet you, James. Just remember me when you've found your feet. When you've discovered that you're comfortable with power and even that you rather like it.'

'I can't imagine that day arriving.'

'I can. I've seen it quite a few times before, you know.'

'I don't think I'm going to forget you very easily.'

'Good. You should also remember that we know you couldn't afford a decent suit when you needed one and your mother has just been diagnosed with breast cancer. That you were one of the earlier British students to provide essays on the web for money when you were an undergraduate. Anything you do we'll find out, do you understand? Including repeating the contents of this discussion _with anyone_.'

James Hackett blinked and swallowed nervously. Harry liked him better for it.

* * *

She was working late again. Just to see if he could, Harry took a circuitous route about the office and tried to sneak up behind her from the shadows. Her chair spun around to face him when he was two metres away.

'You're not quiet enough,' she said smugly. 'I could hear your breathing and your shirt was rustling.'

Part of him was saddened by her words. She hadn't been so sharp when he'd first fallen for her. 'I've been told I'm too quiet when I make love,' he said softly. 'Did you know that?'

Ruth's gaze darted to multiple places before settling on his shoes. She still couldn't quite believe that Harry would put her through this, let alone himself. 'No.'

'Aspersions have been cast on my ability to communicate my enjoyment. Apparently, I might be a bit repressed.'

Grey eyes bulged slightly at the idiocy of the suggestion that Harry was repressed. How could he manage to talk dirty with the burning precision of an exocet missile if that was the case? As ever, the instinct to defend him kicked in. 'That sounds like insecurity talking to me. Or nit-picking.'

Harry smiled. He pulled out Beth's chair, sat down and rolled himself the rest of the way towards her until their knees were touching and his hands were gently drawing her jaw towards his. He let his lips skate across her cheek and up to her ear. 'I bet you're wondering, though. I bet you're pondering the fact that you might just have discovered a way to shut me up.'

'Don't be silly,' she whispered shakily.

'No?' His hands trembled and then held firm as he began to kiss her. Laughter lines, an eyebrow, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. 'Perhaps I should tell you about last night's dream. You were naked and so was I. Your shoulder blade tasted of salt. We were making love and your face was buried against the pillow. I knew it was you, though. I'd know the scent of your hair anywhere—'

She tried to silence him. She succeeded temporarily.


	2. Chapter 2

Ruth's POV from Harry's POV. There's a third chapter with actual plot that I'll get finished at some point. There were no flames, there was some love and some people were intrigued. Thanks!

The usual disclaimers apply. This is rated 'M' and don't you dare forget it.

**Not Close Enough**

In order to get their arms around each other properly they'd managed to migrate a whole metre and partially dislodge one angle-poise lamp. Ruth sat on the edge of her desk, feet dangling merrily and a very quiet Harry standing between her thighs. Their kisses were neither graceful nor particularly skillful. Instead, they were tender. And greedy. And fizzing with intent. He slid a hand down to her bottom and pulled her against him. She tilted her pelvis and widened her thighs, egging him on with a gratifying hum of approval.

And then she whimpered, pulled her head back and squeaked, 'No.'

His cock would have whimpered too if it could. Gentlemanly instincts on full alert, he shifted his hips a fraction and loosened his hold on her. He'd never seen anything like Ruth's eyes in that moment. Desire-expanded pupils and oceans of something that looked strangely like fear.

'No?'

'I _can't!_' she said desperately. '_Harry..._'

He released her and took an unsteady pace backwards, kicking her abandoned chair in the process and sending it on a random path away from them. '_What?_ You're looking at me as if I'm torturing you!'

She gave a half-laugh, half-sob and abruptly crossed her ankles. 'You sort of are.'

'Ruth, you can't say things like that when I've just been touching you like that and not explain. It's cruel, and I know you're not cruel.'

'Oh, Harry, I'm sorry!' The contrition was genuine. 'It's just... it's that... I-I-I—'

He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. 'I don't think you're trying to tell me that you'd like to take it slowly.'

She emitted a single huff of laughter at that. A smirk of delighted awareness followed. 'Absolutely not. I don't think I could. _We_ could. Wow, Harry! Oh, _Christ_, I don't know how to explain and maintain a shred of dignity.'

'If your dignity gets a whiff of maintenance, I'll be mortally offended. I've spent the last week dismantling mine, you know.'

She held out a hand until Harry shuffled close enough to grab by the front of his shirt and pull closer. She rested her nose against his chest and sucked in a deep breath of him before looking up at his face. 'I know you have, and I do understand it. Honestly.'

'But you're not prepared to do the same for me.'

'It's not that. It's _not_. Oh, fuck it! Feel free to take the mickey out of me some other time, but I'd really rather _not_ talk about it here.'

'At last, she sees the light,' he muttered, and was filled with the unmistakeable buzz associated with the prospect of getting some answers. But – and probably for the first time in his life – it only partially made up for his rapidly subsiding erection.

* * *

'Is this make or break time?' he asked lightly as he followed her into the same pod and then out towards the lifts.

'Um. Well. Yeah, it probably is,' she admitted.

'Then I'm going to be autocratic and demand neutral territory.'

'Okay. Where?'

'A hotel. Complete privacy, but I'm getting a suite so we don't have to sit on a bed while we talk.'

Ruth digested this information briefly and decided not to argue. 'Right. Good idea. Thank you.'

They were checked into somewhere four-star and anonymous in less than an hour. Ruth didn't know how much the suite had cost but the sitting room was spacious enough to pretend there wasn't a bedroom next door at all. It both amused and touched her to see Harry throw his coat and jacket across the desk, toe his shoes off and pad across the carpet towards the sofa. He sat down, propped his feet up on the coffee table and regarded her with a carefully mild expression.

'I think you'd better pour us each a glass of wine from a little bottle, come and sit down, and tell me what's happening inside that labyrinthine mind of yours. If it makes it easier, chuck me a packet of peanuts and I can pretend to concentrate on those while you talk.'

Again, Ruth did as she was told, opting for red wine. She set the glasses on the coffee table and sat down. Then she shifted a bit closer to Harry and handed him a packet of dry roasted. His attention immediately shifted towards opening the bag.

'I love you with all my heart,' she said.

As far as Harry was concerned, the world should have rocked at those words. Not being in an earthquake zone, what actually happened was a veritable fountain of peanuts.

'_Shit!_' he exclaimed, taking his feet off the table and brushing his shirtfront frantically before giving up and turning towards Ruth. 'Sorry! Good heavens! Say it again!'

She was laughing. They were both giggling as peanuts worked their way between the sofa cushions. Eventually, she pushed him back to one end of the sofa, picked up her glass and began to speak into it.

'I've been terrified of saying it for so long. But I've realised that there's no way of explaining this to you without flaying my heart anyway, and after what you've said to me you deserve an explanation.'

The implication was that he hadn't deserved one before now. He pondered the benefits of sharing the contents of his saucier dreams compared with good old-fashioned restraint.

'Terrified?'

'Yes. It seems logical to err on the side of caution when you're hopelessly, _horrifically_ vulnerable. I know it's trite but I really hate getting hurt.'

'Hurting you wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I proposed. I know it wasn't smooth, and it wasn't perfectly timed, but I thought it might help you to get over the doubts you seem to have about me.'

'Yes, I know. But Harry, you have this propensity to cause me pain, and I'm not sure if I could survive it _now_, let alone if I let myself go completely. If I give myself up to this... to _you__—_ '

'_Propensity?_' he cut in, chagrin at the ready.

'The thing is, you'd sacrifice me if it meant saving the life of many—'

'Ruth!'

'—No, let me finish! I accept it and I'm prepared to risk it. Honestly and wholeheartedly, Harry. I fell in love with all of you, not just the easy bits. But I'm not sure if I could do the same. If it was your life, versus the lives of many, I'm not sure if I could choose the multitude over you!'

'You won't have to!'

'Can you really say that? Given what's happened to us?'

'I think so.'

'That sounds like faith, not certainty. And anyway, that's still not the point. The point is that if it ever happened... If I ever chose you... Well, then your propensity would kick in.'

The answer began to occur to Harry. It was such a theoretical hang-up that he was very nearly furious. Until he reminded himself that actually it just _should_ have been theoretical.

'You think I'll fall out of love with you. That you'll break under pressure to save my life and then I won't love you any more.'

'I can't see my decision, Harry. I've spent ages trying to see my way through it and I can't! If I save you, you'll despise me for it, but if I sacrifice you, I'll lose you straight away. And there's this sick little fragment of my heart that wonders if it would hurt less to let you be killed than it would to feel your scorn. Which is just _wrong!_'

A loud sniff told him that she'd begun to cry. He awkwardly leant across the sofa to retrieve her glass and then pulled her into his arms and let her sob. Perhaps he should have felt guilty for enjoying the weight of her against him so much but he was far too busy stroking her back and kissing the top of her head.

* * *

'During the eons of tortuous moral philosophising did it ever occur to you that context is everything?' Harry asked as he rinsed a face flannel in warm water and passed it to Ruth. She was sitting on the toilet with the lid down, looking very well-wept and rather sheepish about it.

'I'm not completely stupid. Yes, context is a factor.'

He watched her wipe her face. 'It's _the_ factor,' he ventured. 'My mind doesn't run like a computer program, with "if-then-else" rules of conduct all mapped out in advance.'

She stood up and wandered out of the bathroom, bypassing the bed without a glance on her way back to the sitting room. Harry followed her and suppressed an urge to stick his tongue out at it as he passed.

'I'm an analyst,' she eventually said. 'I've spent a long time training my mind so it does work like that. So I can see patterns when things are messy.'

'And you're better at it than anyone I've ever met. Which is excellent for when you need to analyse things—'

'You're saying that in a Harry-versus-the-masses decision I should just go with my instincts?' she yelped. 'Is that what you did with Nico?'

'Not completely. But there's no way I could have predicted the best way to respond to that situation in advance. The man holding us hostage was a spy himself. Our people didn't seem close to finding us. You realise that if they hadn't found us, Nico was dead whether or not I gave up the uranium.

'Yes.'

'_Instinct_ told me to act as if I didn't care. To buy him some more time.'

Ruth's frown was epic. 'But I don't have it! I wouldn't have thought of it!'

'I think you would!' Harry replied, scenting an advantage. His chin went up and his posture opened out. An experienced soldier addressing his troops. 'Or you'd have thought of something different. Something better. And that's the crux of it. I _know_ that you'll always do the best you possibly can, given the information at your disposal. I _know_ that it won't be worse than I could manage. One of the saddest things about being me is that the list of people I respect is so short. But you're number one, Ruth. By a bloody mile! It's one of the reasons why I love you so much. Why I'm never going to stop loving you while I'm even vaguely _compos mentis_.'

Her voice failed her.

'You probably don't deserve me,' he added, gulping his wine with a cheerful flourish. 'And I'm a portly old man who certainly doesn't deserve you. Aren't we lucky to get more than we deserve?'

She stared at him and wondered what the hell to do. He was so _adamant_. Walls were beginning to crumble under trumpet volleys of sheer conviction. Why did his voice make such a difference?

She took a deep breath and made her decision. 'I suppose we are lucky.'

He blinked. He knew. 'Do you want to stay here?'

There were fire drill instructions on the doors and plastic bags on the glasses. Neutral territory suddenly didn't seem like such a good idea. In a second, Harry had pulled his mobile out of his jacket and hit a speed-dial button. 'Mike? Yes, I'm all right. Can you do me a huge favour?'

* * *

Mike arrived via the ready meals section at Tesco Express. They waited for him in the blustery darkness outside the hotel. Standing so they were touching. Leaning against each other and not saying much.

* * *

Beth was eating pasta in front of the telly when they walked in. She nodded a full-mouthed hello as Ruth darted into her bedroom and began to pack a bag. Harry fixed Beth with an impenetrable look and then spoiled the effect by raising a blatantly jubilant eyebrow.

* * *

In the kitchen, Scarlet greeted Ruth like a long-lost friend, sniffed the Tesco bags he was holding and then asked to be let out into the garden. Ruth did the honours and grinned at him as she shut the back door. It felt as if he'd never seen her smile properly before. 'Are you hungry?' he asked rather lamely.

'Where's your bedroom?' she replied.

He dumped the bags on the work surface and led the way. He had made his bed that morning and thought about Ruth. Now she was sitting on it, holding a leg out straight in front of her. 'Help me take my boots off.'

She was wearing black and red stripy socks. Dennis the Menace colours. 'I like to know that a little bit of me will forever be a student,' she explained, standing up again and making quick work of his tie. She undid three of his shirt buttons and leant forwards to kiss his chest. Open-mouthed. Repeatedly. Oh, God.

'Ruth,' he croaked.

'Mmmm. Clothes off. All. Now.'

She lifted her head and found him waiting impatiently for kisses. Desire flared so quickly that they didn't bother trying to undress each other and only broke apart so that she could pull her blouse over her head. In a minute they were both naked except for their socks and then Harry was clumsily toeing his off at the same time as Ruth was climbing backwards onto the bed. She leant back on her elbows and let him stare at her breasts. At her cunt. Pale skin invited him to make it flush. Freckles begged to be licked. She was gorgeous and she was eying him so hungrily that his skin tingled.

He followed her until she was cradling him. She shifted her legs and stroked the backs of his knees with stripy woollen toes. His erection seemed to slide into entry mode all by itself and the world went a little bit dark as he felt the first hints of her heat.

She groaned loudly and then laughed at herself. Ran happy hands over his shoulders and down his back. 'I can't help it. You feel so good I can't help it.'

'It's mutual,' he managed.

He propped himself up on one elbow and reached down to stroke her with his free hand. She squirmed and _ummed_ and _ahhed_ beneath him until all of a sudden they were fucking each other quite hard and every stroke felt so unbelievably good it was difficult to catch a breath. She pulled his head down for a tonguing kiss with one hand and grabbed his bottom with the other, holding him deep and grinding up against him. He felt the clench of her orgasm and thrust into it with a moan of pleasure.

'Yes!' she gasped. 'Oh, yes, don't hold back.'

A few minutes later, Harry summoned enough strength to lift his face away from the side of Ruth's neck. 'Good grief. I must be squashing you flat. I'm so sorry!'

She smiled and shook her head. Smoothed his hair back with one lazy hand. It was damp with sweat but then so was hers.

'I'm all right so far but you'll have to move soon. It seems a shame, really.'

'Ever having to move again?'

'No, silly. Having to, um, part.'

At which point they did.

'But it means we can come together again,' he suggested with a smile. 'And again. And again, and again.'

'Well there is that, I suppose. It wasn't bad, eh?'

'Not bad? Not _bad?_ Darling, my heart has discovered a new pace. I'm fairly sure I shouted something very sentimental and if I were thirty years younger I'd already be gearing up for round two.'

To emphasise the point, he kissed her as lovingly as he knew how. Ruth's eyes filled with tears. Then her stomach gave an enormous rumble, signalling the unmistakeable need for dinner before round two became a reality.


	3. Chapter 3

I should warn you that there is some semblance of plot. I've been plotting for a while but readers might not be expecting it.

The usual disclaimers apply. There are references to multiple series, including spoilers for eight and nine, and there is a mature rating.

**Not Close Enough**

She woke up knowing exactly where she was. She'd slept a naked, deep sleep, felt a bit sore and had absolutely no desire to reach for the toy that lived in her bedside table drawer.

Harry's location was more of a mystery. There was no Today Show bickering coming from downstairs or showery pattering in the en suite. No snoozing blond knight was buried under the duvet and no familiar silhouette sat at the end of the bed pulling socks on. There was just a navy blue dressing-gown. It was slung across the bed at calf level and when she ventured a hand out into the chilly morning air and pulled it close she discovered that it practically reeked of him.

Several hearty sniffs later, Ruth got up, put the dressing gown on and set off to explore. It didn't take her long to locate her quarry because he was in the spare bedroom. She watched him as he bent to his task. Bare-chested, trousers on but belt undone, Harry was ironing his shirt.

'I tend to choose clothes depending on whether I can get away with not ironing them,' she said.

'I'd noticed,' he replied without looking up. 'It used to irk me.'

'Is this part of your routine? Or do you usually devote an hour or two at the weekends to crease eradication?'

White cotton swished against silver fabric. Steam hissed. 'It's my preferred routine. But there's always one shirt ready in the wardrobe and one in the drawer at work.'

'Waking up next to you would have been... something.'

He looked up at that. His eyes widened as if he was surprised to see her really standing there. He put the iron down and sighed. 'Sorry. I was going to do this and then make you some coffee.'

She moved closer. Sidled around to his side of the ironing board. She loosened the dressing-gown and slid her arms around his waist. He made a helplessly pleased noise as her breasts touched him and pulled her closer.

'Don't worry,' Ruth said in a muffled voice. 'This'll do.'

'No, it won't.'

She froze. 'Er, what?'

'I have to leave in twenty minutes. Thirty at a push.'

'So?'

'So I have to be ready to face the world.'

'Oh.'

He disengaged himself, hauled his gaze away from her and cleared his throat. 'It's not just about getting my tie straight.'

Ruth's hands scrabbled for the belt of her dressing-gown and her cheeks began to burn. 'No. No, I can appreciate that. Do you need me to leave at the same time?'

'No, don't rush. I deliberately didn't wake you up.'

'Have you got time for coffee if I make it?'

'Yes, I think so.'

'Right, then.'

Fifteen minutes later, they stood in the hall with matching mugs. Harry was neat as a pin: black suit, cream tie, coat buttoned up, leather gloves in his pocket. In reaction, Ruth had simply donned a fresh pair of socks as protection against cold tiles. She listened raptly as he explained how to arm and disarm the burglar alarm and handed over a spare key.

'I'll see you on the Grid,' he said eventually. 'Nine o'clock?'

'Okay.'

He drank the last of his coffee and looked at her for a long, long moment before giving her his mug. His lips twitched self-mockingly. 'Is my tie straight?'

'It looks fine.' Ruth's eyes gleamed blue in the early morning sunshine. 'Does it _feel_ all right?'

'It feels a bit skewiff. I'll just have to hope nobody notices.'

* * *

There was annoying intelligence, scary intelligence and a great deal of boring intelligence. Every now and then there was intelligence that made Ruth's heart sink like an aircraft carrier's anchor.

'We're obviously following various groups in Northern Ireland,' she began hesitantly as everyone settled themselves in the briefing room.

'The Real, the Fantasy, the Bonkers IRA,' Harry grumbled. 'Not to mention the Loyalist Freedom Karate Movement or whatever it is they call themselves these days.'

Ruth exchanged a speaking glance with Lucas. If there was one person in the world who could name every paramilitary organisation that had ever existed in Ireland it was Harry.

'Yes. Well. One of our colleagues at Holywood has been cultivating an asset and they've just contacted me. Our best encryption and urgent priory.'

'Is it an IRA asset?' Dimitri enquired shrewdly.

'Actually, no. It's the Karate Movement. Or, rather, a group calling themselves the New Ulster Liberation Fighters.'

'Saints preserve us!' Harry snapped. 'And you're going to tell us this is probably worse than the IRA, aren't you?'

'Um, maybe.'

'Get on with it then!'

She clicked on the LCD and began to flick through photographs of various men. 'The New ULF don't really have a clear political strategy, they've just got a list of things they don't like and people they want to kill. Basically, they don't like devolution, or peace for that matter. And they want to kill pretty much anyone with Republican leanings.'

'Well that narrows the field down,' Beth muttered.

'The asset is the girlfriend of a senior member. She's young, beautiful and regularly beaten. She caught the eye of a thug called Daniel Dodds straight out of school and hasn't managed to cut herself off since. Apparently, Daniel is one of those charmers who is so deeply in love that the only way he can express it is with the back of his hand.'

'Dodds essentially leads this little band of psychos, doesn't he?' said Harry.

'Yep. And he's excited. There's a trawler coming into County Antrim with something very illegal on it. The boat was meant for the mainland but turned away at the last minute because the captain got wind of trouble.'

'How did Dodds find out about this?' Dimitri asked.

'The captain of the boat is his brother's wife's brother, Thomas Hart. Usually he just runs a bit of cannabis into the south coast from Morocco but he came across something else this time. Dodds is planning to offer money but steal the cargo and take Hart hostage.'

'Any idea what the cargo is?'

'Some kind of weapon. Enough to make a mess.'

'Christ almighty,' Lucas drawled. 'Didn't one of these groups put a bomb in a primary school recently?'

'Oh, yes,' said Harry. 'Not many of their devices actually work, but their targets are barmy enough to take very seriously. Dimitri, get hold of your maritime chums. Was someone onto Hart? Who? How did Hart find out? Most importantly, what the hell has he got and where's he going to anchor in Antrim?'

'Yes, sir.'

'And stop bloody calling me that. It's Harry or the legend. Beth, you'll help him.'

'Okey-dokey, Harry.'

'I'm going to have to go. I'm overdue a visit to Holywell. Dimitri, you're coming too. Lucas, you're fine running general operations but there's a JIC meeting in two day's time. Ruth, you'll attend in my stead, and you'll act as section head in my absence.'

Lucas smirked. Ruth stared at Harry, appalled. 'You must be joking!'

'Look at my face. Is it jovial?'

It really wasn't.

'Come on, we'll sort out clearances and get some time with the Home Sec later today. At least you'll have one fan on the JIC.'

* * *

The Home Secretary stopped short of being avuncular. In return, Ruth managed not to shout at him for attempting to make the whole conversation about them-versus-Harry. She discovered that it helped to remind oneself that one had literally held a gun to someone's head (even if it was loaded with blanks) whereas the Home Secretary only had metaphorical experience. No wonder Harry "I'm not saying how many times, but I've used a variety of methods" Pearce professed himself utterly unbothered by what people thought of him.

'Oh, before you go,' the Home Secretary rumbled, 'James Hackett had a word with me earlier. I think someone might be trying to get to him. Have you met him?'

'Yes,' said Harry.

'He's useful at the moment. Allay his fears, will you?'

'Of course.'

They walked through the corridors of Whitehall shoulder to shoulder. It was all very symbolic, Ruth thought, but symbolic of what?

'I think you should deal with Hackett,' Harry told her. 'I didn't exactly cover myself with glory when I met him.'

'What do you mean?'

'He knows about us. More about the state of us than anyone. Except for Mike, of course.'

'He _what?_ What the hell happened?'

'It was day seven of the dignity demolition and I was a bit, um, open with him.'

'You? _Open?_'

'You know his girlfriend left him last year?'

'Yes.'

'Because he never thought to propose.'

'Oh, Jesus.'

'I'm afraid I found it funny. Ironic? I'm never quite sure of the strict definition.'

'And you told him so.'

'Mmmhmm.'

'And now I've got to deal with his nose-tapping say-no-more needs while you bugger off to a country where a good portion of the population hates your guts with a passion.'

'I suppose you _could_ put it like that...'

'I'm not using your office,' Ruth declared totally tangentially.

'You'll have to. There are phone calls you'll have to take that require it.'

'Oh, for God's sake! I can't believe you're making me do this.'

'You have the most experience. You already know most of the people you'll have to deal with. I trust you.'

'You trust Lucas!'

'But he's got something on his mind and he's nowhere near ready for Whitehall.'

'Neither am I!'

'We both know that's demonstrably untrue.'

'Will you ever forgive me for speaking directly to the Home Secretary?'

'There's nothing to forgive. But we reap what we sow, Ruth, and if he _wants_ to deal with you then he _shall_ deal with you.'

'You're a git. An absolute arse!'

They had reached the car. Mike stifled a chuckle, opened the door for her and shot her a look of pure adoration. Harry opened his own door, got in, tried to look endearing and succeeded admirably. 'Can you sort out a very quiet flight for Dimitri and me? I think I'd like to be a surprise.'

Ashamed of herself for being so rude, Ruth nodded. 'Of course.'

'Not tonight, though. Tomorrow. Perhaps not massively early tomorrow.'

'Harry, do you really have to go?' hervoice was perilously close to a whine.

He touched his tie knot and sighed. 'Yes, I do. But I can think of one or two reasons to come back again.'

* * *

The worst thing of all was that he had an amazing handover document already prepared. Processes mapped out, his contact list, the usual form taken by regularly scheduled meetings, how he prioritised deadlines, the status of all active cases and all cases currently being prepared for court... A thousand and one comments written in a way that screamed, "We are for Ruth! She'll understand!"

It was obvious that the document was one of the things that Harry worked on regularly. All the times she'd left him in his office and gone home, he'd probably been about to update the monster she was now looking at. The monster called _If Something Happens to Harry_. Or _Nobody is Irreplaceable_. It made her temporary job seem vastly more doable and she hated it.

While Ruth reluctantly read on, Beth got down to business. Chatting up the chaps at the UK Boarder Agency suited her very well. 'Nobody seems to know anything about a weapon,' she reported. 'Officers were waiting for Hart's boat, expecting about half a tonne of dope, but someone tipped him off. This unit haven't had any similar problems, which makes me think that the intended buyer of this particular cargo was either listening in or paid someone for information.'

'Have a look at the unit's staff and their immediate superiors. We need to know if anyone is liable for paying off or blackmail. They might be able to lead us back to the intended buyer.'

'Will do. I'll give Tariq the search parameters and then I'm off for an early night. Do you want to share a cab home? My treat?'

'Sucking up to the boss?' Ruth enquired with a smile.

'Oh, completely.'

'All right then. I'm going out again, though.'

'Yeah, I thought so.'

Once they were in the cab, Ruth remembered how bad she was at having girlie chats. 'Have you mentioned last night to anyone?'

Beth didn't even pretend not to understand. 'I haven't worked with you long enough to know how much of a risk you're both taking. It didn't seem fair to gossip while that was the case. And you can make me homeless and he can sack me. I suppose you can both sack me now.'

'I suppose we can.' Ruth glanced sideways at Beth. 'To be honest, I don't know how risky it is.'

'But this isn't a new thing, right? You argue like you've been together a while.'

'Not really. Well, not properly. I suppose we've sort of had a thing...'

'Oh, God, I must be _totally_ cramping your style!'

Ruth blushed fiercely. 'Not really,' she said again. 'We haven't got as far as having a style. A routine.'

'If you give me two hour's notice, I can be out. For a night or two, anyway.'

'Thanks. But he's got... he's got a nice house.'

Beth burst out laughing. 'You're finding this really awkward, aren't you?'

'A bit.'

'Then I suppose I shouldn't ask you what he's like in the sack. Or whether he's got a big knob.'

'_No!_ I mean no, thanks. Please don't ask.'

'How big is his house, then?'

'Three bedrooms. Pimlico.'

Beth whistled quietly. 'I'd call that eligible. _And_ he's a KBE. _And_ he's not married. God, you certainly know how to pull!'

* * *

On the chauffeured trip back across the river to Harry's nice house, Ruth stared out into the drizzly night and debated whether to entertain him with Beth's opinion. But she was genuinely disarmed by her flatmate's closed-mouthed strategy and decided to repay the favour by staying quiet for the moment.

'You seem a bit distracted,' he commented as they crossed Vauxhall Bridge.

Ruth looked across the car at him and smiled ruefully. 'I've had a busy day.'

'Boss being a pain again?'

'Even worse than usual. And that's saying something.'

Harry tutted sympathetically. 'The silly old bastard doesn't know how lucky he is.'

'Too right he doesn't. Thinks he can just leave me to run things while he goes off on a bit of a jolly!'

'Perhaps we should talk about something other than work. Are you hungry?'

'I think I am. I didn't really have lunch.'

'I need to exercise, eat and also pack. Is that order of proceedings bearable for you?'

Ruth nodded. 'If you let me cook. And scoff some of your crisps in the meantime. What exercise do you do?'

'Not a lot. I'll show you when we get back.'

She hadn't realised that there was a rudimentary gym in Harry's basement. A complicated free-weights machine with cable pulls and worn-looking handles stood in one corner, an exercise bike in another. Most of the space was dedicated to a heavy punch bag that dangled from an enormous hook screwed into the ceiling. Surprisingly, the room didn't smell too bad.

'I can't run any more,' Harry explained. 'So I don't do enough to stay thin.'

'But you box?'

'A few times a week. Just enough to maintain the reflexes. I mess around a bit with that confounded machine too. I was on it every day after getting shot in the shoulder and I don't think I'll ever forgive it.'

'I always wondered about that. About the physio and stuff. But I never had the courage to ask.'

'I probably would have told you to fuck off if you'd tried. I'm the man wearing a suit while the others run around in leather jackets. Once upon a time I was bloody fit. Now I need a knee replacement.'

'Really?'

Harry pulled a face. 'Three months of putting my feet up. I think I'll hold on for now.'

She shrugged. Automatically hiding a wave of concern at the thought of Harry in pain. Harry in hospital. Harry needing looking after. How many times had she managed to convince herself that he was fine on his own? 'Well, I'll leave you to it. There's still some food left over from Mike's Tesco run isn't there?'

'Cottage pie and some veg. If you need to bulk things up there are baked beans in the cupboard.'

'Baked beans and cottage pie?'

He looked slightly embarrassed. 'Army cooking. They used to give us chips with it too, would you believe.'

While the oven warmed up, Ruth nosed through the kitchen with professional thoroughness. The cupboards were fairly bare. Cake tins and casserole dishes looked as if they had been moved into whatever space was handy and never touched again. They probably hadn't been cooked in since Harry's wife left him. He obviously had a soft spot for tinned rice pudding. It was a shock to discover sugar-free Alpen that was mostly eaten and well within its use-by date. Beneath her feet, irregular flurries of thuds and smacks indicated that Harry was possibly a little bit fitter than he'd let on. She decided to take Scarlet for a brisk walk while the pie cooked.

'Come and watch me pack,' he demanded after dinner.

'Is it likely to be more or less interesting than Wednesday night television?'

He pouted at her. 'You need to ask?'

Four pairs of socks, four pairs of boxers, four unironed shirts folded tightly ('something to do if I can't sleep'), two ties rolled into a cylinder, one pair of jeans, one jumper, one t-shirt, one suit-carrier with charcoal wool contents inserted. It was not exactly scintillating stuff.

'Do you want to stay here while I'm away?' Harry asked.

'Oh, no!' Ruth's reply was instinctively diffident. 'I couldn't possibly.'

'I wouldn't offer if that was the case.'

'But…'

'It's not an offer of marriage, you know. Oh! You've had one of those already. I think it's safe to say that you wouldn't be overstepping.'

'Harry…'

He stood the suitcase up on its wheeled end and marched around the bed towards the bit where she was perched. As far as she was concerned, pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt didn't dull the effect very much. He sat down heavily enough to make her bounce slightly.

'I haven't touched you since this morning and despite my very, very best efforts I've been thinking about it roughly once every twenty seconds all day long.'

Ruth was annoyed to feel a tsunami wave of relief. 'I honestly couldn't tell.'

'Good. It means I might possibly be able to wake up next to you in the morning and get through the day without making a complete idiot of myself.'

'Was it really that bad?'

'It was a lot harder than I thought it would be. You were imagining something when we were with the Home Secretary. I saw your eyes get that dreamy look.'

'Oh! I was picturing myself holding a gun to his head.'

Harry let out a shout of laughter. 'If I'd known that, I'd _never_ have been able to stop myself from kissing you.'

She bit her lip and let her heart show. 'Do you have to stop yourself now?'

'No. Thank God. No.'

A little while later, she had manoeuvred him onto his back. 'It was hard for me, too. Not jumping on you. But it always has been.' She sucked his collarbone and then kissed him over and over until she'd learned the curve of his belly with her lips. The shape of his thighs and the texture of the hair on his shins. 'I have a surplus of kisses that were meant for you that I've built up over the years.'

Harry lifted his head off the pillow, panting a bit as he squinted at her. She took him in hand, revelling in the ineloquence of his reaction and the downright lasciviousness of her own. She practically scrambled back up the bed in her haste to straddle him.

Afterwards, it was abundantly clear that Harry was knackered. Ruth curled up against him with her head resting in the crook of his un-shot shoulder and his fingers walking unsteadily across the skin of her back. It rated very highly on her secret chart of blissful moments.

'I'm not going to stay here,' she told him. 'Because I don't think I can bear being here if you're not.'

**Notes:**

1. MI5 have an office in N. Ireland that was the target of a bomb attack quite recently. I don't know what it is generally known as but it is located in Holywell.

2. Harry obviously moved house after getting his briefcase nicked by a teenager. In series 4 episode 9 (the one with the bus) Victoria Tower, at the southern end of the Palace of Westminster, looms above Harry's street, indicating a location in Westminster, hideously close to Milbank! The idea might have been to suggest that Harry lives just round the corner from Thames House (lives for work). Purely for the sake of Ruth's sanity I've put Harry in Pimlico, which is still within easy walk-to-work distance. Either way, Harry's house would be worth a million plus but Scarlet probably doesn't have much of a garden. The question is, does he own or rent? Bet Beth finds out and tells Ruth.


	4. Chapter 4

**All the usual disclaimers apply here. Spoilers ahoy!**

**If you take issue with fiction that includes religious terrorism, description of rape, humour so black you may not spot it at all, professional Ruth and, of course, a bit of sex... well then hit the back button. Now.**

**Apologies for the triple attempt at uploading. I noticed a couple of absolute clangers and edited accordingly.**

**

* * *

**

**Not Close Enough**

They woke up with the alarm at full beep, swore simultaneously, laughed unwillingly and got up. Harry took advantage of the shirt in his wardrobe so that he had time to shave and give Ruth a mobile phone and a charger.

'Paid for with cash, false name given, don't take it to Thames House. And don't let Beth see it either.'

'Okay.'

'I've memorised the number. When I get to Belfast I'll buy a clean phone and call you on it. It won't be until after ten tonight, though.'

'Okay.'

'I'm meeting Dimitri at the Grid and picking up some kit. Mike's driving us to the plane and then he'll be at your disposal until I get back. He's taken such a shine to you it'll break his heart if you don't use him.'

Ruth wrinkled her nose. 'Okay.'

'Please?'

'I said okay.'

'You can trust him with your life. In fact, don't trust anyone apart from him.'

'Jesus, Harry! You're such a delight in the mornings.'

'Ruth?'

'Okay.'

'I love you.'

She smiled. 'Okay.'

'I'm going to miss you.'

She sashayed into the kitchen, blue dressing-gown swishing. 'Okay.'

'Are you going to miss me?' he found himself asking, straight tie be damned.

She gave him a disapproving look. 'I'm not entirely sure I'll have time.'

'Find it,' he growled, backing her into the corner near the microwave and extracting a more than half-decent snog out of her.

* * *

The A40 on the way to RAF Northolt was relatively clear. Mike had wangled a Range Rover Sport for the morning and spent the trip discussing its merits with Dimitri, who was perkiness personified until they'd passed through the red-and-white barrier onto the airfield and started to see actual aeroplanes.

'Everything all right?' Harry enquired, leaning into the gap between the two front seats so he could examine Dimitri's profile.

'I like boats, not planes,' said Dimitri.

'I know,' Harry's reply was gentle. 'But you should see the little beauty we've got today.'

They pulled up near a small'ish twin-prop plane, into which two men in army uniform were depositing a number of aluminium cases. The pilot was performing pre-flight checks and laughing at something he'd heard through his headphones. Mike opened the rear door of the car, standing to attention as Harry got out and walked across the tarmac towards the soldiers. They both saluted Harry before shaking hands.

'Sergeant Philips! Good to see you.'

'Sir. Likewise. This is Lance-Corporal Evans. I should warn you, he's a bloody chatterbox.'

Evans had blue eyes and an absolutely beautiful smile. 'Sir Harry! The sun is shining and the winds are fair. You picked a good day for flying with us.'

'So it seems. You'll have to convince Dimitri, though. He's Navy. Bit of an aversion to flight.'

'Poor thing,' Evans responded with at least a semblance of genuine sympathy. He watched as Dimitri opened the boot of the Range Rover and then marched over to offer his assistance.

They were in the air within minutes, climbing slowly and continuing west. The silver thread of the River Thames curved below them as they flew over Slough before banking north and setting a steady course across country. 'We'll fly south of Birmingham, skirt Snowdonia and follow the Irish coast around from just north of Dublin,' Philips explained via their headset communications link.

'We seem to be a bit low,' Dimitri commented.

Evans laughed at his rigid expression. 'Cabin's not pressurised, sailor.'

'What model is the plane?'

'A Britten-Norman Defender. Regular workhorses from Manchester to the Congo these are. This one has Forward Looking Infrared and high-definition cameras under the nose. From the details you sent through yesterday, the coastguard thinks the trawler you're interested in is anchored just off the coast near Cushendall. We'll be flying over and taking a look with the infrared camera. It'll tell you how many men you have to deal with onboard.'

'That's great!'

'Take some nice photos of the Giant's Causeway too, if you like.'

'Calm down, Evans,' Sergeant Philips admonished. 'Get the monitors up and running. We can give Dimitri and Sir Harry the tour once that's done.'

'We aren't expected at the barracks?' Harry asked Philips. 'I'll be impressed if you've managed to fly under the gossip radar.'

'Officially, this trip is to update joint forces coastline data. Unofficially, the Department of Agriculture and Rural Development, plus three competing companies, will be buying images and film off us to help with offshore wind-farm development. Either way, as far as everyone else is concerned, we're simply stopping to refuel before heading home.'

'Excellent. I've arranged for an old friend to meet us at Aldergrove.'

'Good. Otherwise you'd have to get a taxi. But I don't suppose for one minute Ruth Evershed would let that happen.'

Dimitri laughed. 'Evershed? Do you know her?'

'Only to talk to on the phone, sadly. When Ruth says, "jump," we say, "yes ma'am," and try not to squirm too much with enjoyment. Is she as forceful face-to-face as she is on the blower?'

Dimitri blinked at Philips. 'Forceful?'

'Oh, yeah. But sort of lovely with it.'

'Well you know how it is,' Harry cut in smoothly. 'She gets the job done.'

The time crossing the mainland passed quickly as they unpacked three separate laptop computers and connected up live links to the plane's surveillance equipment. Evans demonstrated the usefulness of the infra-red camera equipment by teaching Dimitri to spot deer under the tree canopy while they flew over Welsh woodland.

Just as they had left the coast behind, Beth called through on the satellite phone. Harry pulled off his headset and plugged himself into the phone's rather sleeker version.

'We've found the leak at the Boarder Agency,' she explained. 'Twenty years of service, a wife, two children and he's discovered a completely mental version of Christianity. How the fuck do we miss these people, Harry?'

'We don't miss many,' he responded automatically.

'Oh, come off it, this guy is law enforcement.'

'I'm sorry, Beth. There is no perfect system.'

'Well, he's very proud of the fact that he's a follower of something called Christian Identity. Have you ever heard of it?'

'It sounds American.'

'It's actually based on a thing called British Israelism. Some Victorian bank clerk propounded a theory that white Europeans are the true descendents of the ten lost tribes of Israel, and therefore white Christians are God's chosen people.'

'Victorian? Heaven help us.'

'Exactly. He sailed off to America and kept promoting his theories. Eventually, they were picked up by a chap called Adam Swift, who added a crucial bit about modern Jews being the descendents of Cain, who was naturally the offspring of Eve and the Garden of Eden's resident snake.'

'All Jews are _literally_ the spawn of the devil?'

'Apparently so. Told you it was mental.'

'So were they going to target a Synagogue? An individual? As far as I know there are no VIP guests from Israel scheduled for a couple of weeks. What's on the boat?'

'The customs officer, Gordon Hatter, he doesn't know much. But I told him I'd got a couple of mates in Mossad who would be happy to talk to him and he gave me the name of his contact. Robert Dormer seems to be a full time preacher, or an unemployed leech, depending on your point of view. He _has_ to have a sponsor.'

'Take Lucas, tell him to be scary, find out what he was planning. I'm tired of asking the same questions!'

'It's funny, though. I got the impression that the original target wouldn't be Jewish.'

'Just call me when you know. We should be landing in an hour or so.'

'Will do.'

'Oh, and Beth?'

'Yes?'

'Have you got a couple of mates in Mossad?'

'Ask me no thumping great questions on monitored satphone calls, Harry.'

He smiled. 'Glad to hear your training is going well.'

The plane swept on. Evans and Philips sat immersed in their work, occasionally asking the pilot for instruments-based confirmation of altitude and position. Harry took the opportunity to shout an update into Dimitri's ear. Once they'd flown over Belfast Loch he began to scan the water below.

'Not much inshore traffic,' he said.

'A few commercial boats trawl the mussel beds but that's about it,' Dimitri explained. 'There's a regular ferry to Stranraer as well.'

'Coastguard have confirmed the GPS coordinates of your trawler,' the pilot broke in efficiently. 'Coming up on your left in approximately three minutes. Maintaining altitude at 4,000 feet for the first pass, we'll swing around and come back once at 2,000 feet. Any more and we risk raising suspicion.'

'Thank you,' Harry replied, eyes flicking between the sun-kissed sea below and the dull darkness of the infrared display as they flew over empty water. He shaded his eyes and squinted, a speck below rapidly forming into the toy-sized shape of a boat with a cheery red hull.

'Got it!' Evans exclaimed smugly. 'The view is good, maintain course.'

'Only three men,' Dimitri counted the glowing white shapes of men's bodies. 'Can we go in tonight?'

'They look like a bunch of amateurs. GPS blaring away, nobody on watch, no apparent defence. Bloody sitting ducks,' Harry groused. 'But we need to catch both Daniel Dodds and Thomas Hart firmly in the act. We can't move until Dodds does.'

'I thought he was planning to take Hart hostage. Which would mean the crew as well, unless he kills them. Sounds messy to me.'

'What would you rather do?'

'Go in quietly. Offer Hart a deal. Get a look at what we're dealing with and make me an honorary crew member. I'll signal when Dodds arrives and you can nab him as soon as he gets back to shore.'

'It doesn't prevent a hostage situation.'

'No, but I can keep things calm. Stop anyone from getting shot.'

'We'll see what they say at Holywell.'

The plane banked sharply as it began to turn around for a second pass. Dimitri closed his eyes and clutched the arms of his seat.

* * *

Beth tapped on the sliding door and opened it halfway. Ruth was deep in conversation on the phone.

'I can understand the need to safeguard sources in Tangier. We have no intention of carrying out an operation on your soil.'

A pause for a reply.

'Yes, I'll guarantee it.'

More from Morocco. From Ruth's expression, it wasn't helpful.

'Don't be ridiculous!' She sat back in her chair, gazed at the ceiling and obviously came to some sort of decision. She switched to Arabic and spoke rapidly for half a minute. The response she got made her smile. 'Thank you. That's all I needed to know. Say hello to your boss for me, won't you? I was at Cambridge with Karim.'

'Well?' said Beth.

'They know absolutely nothing. Surprise surprise, someone is smuggling arms through North Africa undetected.'

'Bugger.'

'I'm sure we'll find out. I've just spoken to Harry and they've got the boat locked up tight. We'll have a briefing at two and decide when to move.'

'Okay. I need to question Robert Dormer. Harry said to take Lucas but I can't find him and he's not answering his mobile.'

Ruth sighed. 'Again? All right, let's put the frighteners on Dormer together. Get CO19 to pick him up and take him to Kennington Police Station. We'll go and see him there rather than have him here. Make it all seem as normal as possible.'

'What about Lucas?'

'I'll deal with him later. Come on, we've got the car while Harry's away.'

'Oh, cool!'

Mike looked so pleased to see Ruth that she almost gave him a hug. 'This is my housemate, Beth,' she told him. 'Be aware that we will be completely misusing you while we've got you. A trip to Waitrose to stock up the freezer, Majestic for a couple of cases of wine...'

'Can we get some stuff for the flat?' Beth asked excitedly.

'Yep. There's a transit van in the car pool, isn't there, Mike? If we wanted to go furniture shopping on Saturday, for example.'

Mike's smile didn't falter. 'There is one. I'll book it if you like. As long as I can use it to go to the tip after I've dropped you two off. My wife has been nagging me for ages.'

'It's a deal. Apologies to the tax-payer and all that, but I lost all my bookshelves a few years ago and I'm in dire need of replacements.'

* * *

Robert Dormer was a bit of a surprise. Middle-aged, tidily dressed, thoughtful-looking.

'I asked the officers who brought me here why they thought it necessary,' he said calmly. 'But they wouldn't say anything at all.'

Ruth's apologetic earnestness made him visibly relax. Until she said, 'Prevention of terrorism. We don't actually have to tell you anything for twenty-eight days if we don't want to.'

'Terrorism?'

'Conspiring to smuggle illegal weapons into the UK whilst promoting extreme and racist religious beliefs isn't the most popular behaviour, nowadays.'

Dormer folded his arms. 'You'd persecute a Christian man? That doesn't usually turn out so well, you know.'

'I wouldn't dream of persecuting you,' Ruth said, as if the very idea astonished her. 'What I _can't_ vouch for is whoever you have to share a cell with while we continue our investigations. Prison overcrowding is such a problem these days.'

'Whatever do you mean?'

She rested her elbow on the table and propped her chin on her hand thoughtfully. 'Twenty-seven nights with an energetic sodomite. Would God be disappointed with you if you were unable to resist? From what I've read about your little prayer group, you believe that a woman who is the victim of rape is somehow to blame for it. A wife is an adulterer. A daughter is a whore. What does that make a man?'

Dormer's face was a picture of horror and disgust. 'You wouldn't dare! I have rights!'

'It's not me, Robert. It's just the reality of custody. Extremely serious accusations have been made against you and we simply have to investigate them.'

'What do you want to know?'

Beth was leaning against the wall behind Dormer. Her voice contrasted sharply with Ruth's gentle delivery. 'You were due to take delivery of a shipment five days ago. What was being delivered?'

Dormer twisted in his chair, trying to see Beth properly. She walked forwards and stood over him. 'What were you expecting to get, Robert?'

'I don't know what you're talking about!' he retorted.

'Oh, we all know that's not true,' said Ruth with a sigh. She stood up and joined Beth. The pair of them frowned down at Robert Dormer as if he was a stubborn toddler taking issue with dinnertime broccoli. Ruth reached inside her jacket and withdrew a gun from a shoulder holster. Dormer's eyes widened in shock.

'Be a good boy and open your mouth for me,' she said quietly. 'It's really easy to chip a tooth on one of these things.'

'No!'

She pressed the end of the barrel against his lips with gentle insistence. 'Come on, Robert, open wide.'

Dormer opened his mouth. A dribble of saliva slid down to his chin as Ruth pushed the barrel of the gun a few centimetres between his teeth.

'I'd like you to close your eyes and remember what you smell like when you haven't had a shower for a couple of days,' she murmured. 'A bit musky around the balls. Your little chap needs a good wash. You know exactly what I mean. Now imagine it's another man's muskiness. Similar to you, but not quite _right_. It's all you can smell. It's overpowering. And your mouth is full. Your jaw aches with it. You _have_ to breathe through your nose. You're sucking in that smelly-bollocks air as if you can't get enough of it.'

Dormer gagged and whimpered. Ruth met his newly bloodshot gaze with a blank, grey stare. She pushed the gun a fraction further into his mouth. 'My colleague is going to ask you some questions. You're going to answer fully, and truthfully. None of us wants anything nasty to happen to you.'

* * *

In London and Belfast two small teams of people were sat at two large tables, each staring at a flat screen with a view of the other room.

'Tariq has sent through the footage of Richard Dormer,' Ruth began. 'He's being cooperative.'

In place of the webcam-eye-views, footage of a tearful man clutching a tissue and talking to Beth began to run.

'A year ago I was invited to spend some time with a church in Oklahoma. The pastor there taught me that Christianity existed in Britain before Roman interference. The Celts were the true Christians, and their tribes were directly linked to the House of Israel!'

'So?'

'We don't believe in any of that Second Coming rubbish. In Armageddon. It is our duty to build the Kingdom of God here and now.'

'What do you plan to do?'

'We are going to send a message. To unite true men of Adam's stock under one banner. Here. In the United States. Europe, South Africa, Australia...'

'What message, Robert?'

'Westminster Cathedral.'

'It's a Catholic church!'

'And what good has _that_ done in the last two thousand years?'

'How?'

Robert Dormer smiled. 'Hellfire,' he said. 'It seemed appropriate.'

'Details,' Beth snapped impatiently. 'Unless you fancy learning more about prison-time.'

'One of the church members has only recently retired from the American military. He sourced some Russian grenades before he left. They can be launched from an RPG-7 but they're thermobaric.'

'How many?'

'Six. You can't stop us, you know. Our race is invincible.'

Silence fell. Harry's demanding tones rang through both meeting rooms. 'Where the hell are the other targets?'

On screen, someone else entered the interview room, their back initially towards the camera. Dormer's expression slipped from confident to terrified as Ruth bent over him.

'Where are the other grenades, Robert?'

'I don't know!'

'Yes, you do.'

'Six grenades, six Catholic churches. It's all I know! I swear! In God's name!'

She considered him for a moment and glanced at Beth for confirmation. 'Thank you. I hope your time in Belmarsh is bearable. I'll strongly recommend solitary confinement.'

Dormer's whole body sagged with relief. 'Oh, God! Thank you so much!'

The screens flickered straight back to the webcams as the video ended.

'Jesus, Evershed, what did you do to him?' Dimitri exclaimed.

'Prison Conditions Scenario 1C,' Beth told him admiringly. 'I'd only read a training summary before today but Ruth was ace!'

'I think it might work best when there are two women interviewing,' Ruth added. 'More contrast.'

Harry felt a little burst of pride. 'You've let the relevant people know?' he asked.

'We've notified the Vatican, CIA and the FBI directly,' said Tariq. 'The church in Oklahoma was already under surveillance, but obviously not closely enough. And an alert has gone out covering all major Catholic churches in the places Dormer specified. It's a nightmare, though. The range of these things is a kilometre.'

'It's not our job to worry about the other five. But I don't think we can risk Daniel Dodds getting his hands on a genuine RPO-Z,' said Harry.

'I've been watching videos of them on youtube,' Tariq said. 'The grenades generate a fire that's a thousand degrees Centigrade for ten seconds. _Everything_ burns.'

'Then we'll go in as soon as night falls, replace the genuine RPO with a decommissioned grenade and the two crew members with field officers. We wire the boat for sound and pictures and call in the cavalry as soon as we've got enough. Agreed?'

Everybody nodded. The man next to Harry sat back in his chair. 'Decommissioned weapons? We'll have to have a look in the basement for those.'

Harry grinned at him. 'I'm sorry, I should have introduced you to Beth and Tariq. This is Stuart Flintoff. We worked together years ago. Stuart heads up the Northern Ireland office in this new era of devolution.'

'I actually wish we didn't have to be here,' Stuart explained. 'I prefer hot, dry countries and the comforting snobbery of MI6. But while there are people like Dodds around we'll be staying. And while I work here, I'll just have to tolerate surprise visits from the boss.'

'You're pleased to see him really,' Ruth retorted. 'You've both got half a bottle of Jameson's and reminiscing about the old days written all over your faces.'

'It would be more fun if you were here as well. I could brush up my Mandarin on you.'

She pursed her lips against a grin, eyes downcast. 'Dream on, Stuart.'

* * *

He phoned her at eleven. She was lying in bed with a copy of _Love in the Time of Cholera_, wishing she was enjoying it more.

'Hi,' he said.

'Hello.'

'I'm a little bit tipsy.'

'You astound me.'

'Not nearly as much as I would be if I hadn't had a call to make. Everything okay?'

'I think so.'

'Not too nervous about tomorrow?'

'The one rule of the phone call is that we don't mention the JIC. Are we clear?'

'Yes! Sorry.'

'Dimitri okay?'

'Yes, he's fine. Happy as Larry now he's bobbing around in a boat. He makes me feel _so_ sodding old. Did I ever tell you I'm afraid of flying?'

Ruth snorted. 'No. But then the list of things I don't know about you is pretty lengthy.'

'For example?'

'How am I supposed to know what I don't know?'

'That's not the sort of question to ask a man who's been drinking Irish Whisky.'

Ruth giggled and rolled onto her side. 'Tell me anything, then.'

'I gave my children your cats.'

'Really? I thought they must have died and it was too depressing to ask. You're speaking to Graham?'

'Not as such. But he was visiting Catherine when I took Fidget round and stayed long enough to demand Misfit. He said it wasn't fair if I gave one of them a pet but not the other.'

'Was he serious?'

'Of course not. It was the first time we'd smiled at each other for about twenty years.'

'But you gave him Misfit anyway.'

'Via Catherine. Misfit got himself a gmail account soon after and sends me an update every couple of months. Graham's girlfriend is called Isobel. She's expecting a baby.'

'Oh, Harry.'

'According to Misfit, I won't be absolutely unwelcome if I visit my grandchild.'

There was a long pause.

'I owe you an awful lot, Ruth.'

'Don't get maudlin over me, Harry. I mentally raped a man with the aid of a revolver today.'

His voice brightened. 'That's true. And I was as pleased as punch when Beth got all gushy about it.'

'We're so fucked up.'

'Perhaps we're just a good match. All things considered.'

'Perhaps.'

'I've never been very good on the phone, and here we are, gossiping away like we've been doing this for years.'

'Grandchildren, cats and borderline torture.'

'Sweetheart, it sounds like I'm going to have to distract you. I'm missing you.'

'Oh?'

'Yes. I'm sitting on an army barracks bed, in Northern _bloody_ Ireland, and it feels like I'm revisiting my ancient history. I hadn't realised how far I've moved on. I want to be lying down in London with an armful of you. I want the taste of you on my tongue, not Stuart's whisky. In fact, when I get home, I'm going to replace my dream cunnilingus with the real thing as fast as humanly possible.'

'We've spent the last two nights together and I'm _still_ blushing.'

Harry laughed. 'I should have done it before I left. It was careless of me. Are you in bed?'

'Yes.'

'Are you in some sort of fluffy pyjama set?'

'Marks and Sparks' best,'

'Do you fancy taking them off?'

Ruth sat up in bed and began to unbutton her top. 'Shall I leave my socks on?'

'God, yes. Hang on. I'm just plugging in the hands-free.'

'That's cheating! I'm going to have to put my phone down while I get my trousers off.' There was a muffled materially sound and then Ruth piped up again, slightly breathlessly. 'Okay. I'm nude.'

'Would you like to rephrase that? Embellish things a touch?'

'Not really. I think you should do the talking. Especially as you don't have to hold a phone.'

'Spoilsport.'

'Harry, I'm lying in the dark, wearing nothing but a pair of old hockey socks. I have goosebumps.'

'That's a start.'

'What about you?'

'Still in my trousers. Well, _in_ isn't really the right word.'

She could picture it in her mind's eye. It was very rude.

'Where are your hands?' he said quietly.

'One of them is holding the phone.'

'Ruth Evershed, don't be coy.'

'I'm touching myself. My clitoris.'

'How?'

'Middle finger.'

'I'm with you. Oh, blimey, I'm turned on.'

'What are you doing?'

'I'm touching my cock.'

'How?'

'I've never really thought about it. Er, first two fingers and a thumb, mainly. It's a very familiar rhythm.'

'When you get back, I want you to show me. I want you to wank yourself off while you lick me.'

'_Fuck!_'

'I can't believe I just said that out loud.'

'I'm going to. I'm going to finger you, and lick you, and then we'll watch each other. And when it gets unbearable not to be touching each other we're going to fuck.'

'Oh... I need two hands for this. Phone's by my ear.'

Harry began to form words again soon after he'd finished. 'Oh dear,' he said slightly dolefully.

Ruth lazily scrabbled for the phone. 'What's wrong?'

'I came all over my shirt. And it's laundry day tomorrow.'

'So rinse it out.'

'It's an army barracks. They'll bloody know!'

'Can't you hang it on a radiator? Or, I don't know, take your dirty washing home with you for a change?'

'I suppose I could. But what if they search my luggage?'

'Make sure the nosy little gits get their hands dirty.'

'Oh, Ruth, that's nasty.'

'So is searching the boss' room.'

'Have I told you today that I really, _really_ love you?'

She smiled and rolled back over onto her side, hugging a pillow. Desperately missing his presence despite her sleepiness. She'd heard that crack cocaine could hook you from the very first inhalation and Harry seemed to have a similar effect.

'Go to sleep, my lover. When you get back, _I'm_ going to teach you how to bask in the aftermath for longer than thirty seconds.'


	5. Chapter 5

Sorry this has taken a while. I've been writing work stuff and the two don't mix well. Sadly, even if I add extra paragraph tags in the html view of the document, some formatting is getting lost.

The usual disclaimers apply.

This chapter is mainly Spooks rather than Ship. It's the most detailed and probably the most boring! Thanks hugely to those handy policy people who came up with our top three threats this autumn: international terrorism, cyber attack and the 'flu.

There is a fair amount of telephone and radio communication during the New ULF operation. In a vague attempt to make it less confusing, the dialogue of characters that are located elsewhere (i.e. not on the boat with Dimitri) is in _italics_. A few notes and definitions are also provided at the end of the chapter as I'm very bad at writing lengthy exposition.

**Not Close Enough**

The arms of Morpheus had been particularly cuddly for the last few nights and at four o'clock in the morning Harry had to fight hard to release himself. His mobile phone battled alongside him, trilling persistently on the bedside table, Stuart Flintoff's name displayed with a backing of sickly green light.

'Yes?'

'Alpha observation team have called in. Dodds has just left his house.'

'I'll be in the office in ten minutes.'

'Good stuff. The team there will take care of you; I'm going back to sleep.'

'What?'

'This operation's a piece of piss. It doesn't need both of us pacing around with hangovers.'

'It's considered good manners to share my pain, though.'

'You haven't got the manners to tell me when you're coming to visit. Or why!'

'Oh, dear. Have I hurt your feelings, Stu?'

'Bugger off, Harry!'

The call ended abruptly. Harry sat up gingerly and was relieved to find that his hangover was minimal. He threw back the duvet and decided to get dressed before calling Ruth, giving her a generous ten minutes of extra sleep before she had to rush back to the Grid.

* * *

'It's not ideal,' Dimitri admitted, tired eyes enlarged by the fisheye lens of the little camera he'd installed in the trawler's cabin. 'Dodds is travelling in a Landrover with four other men. We're going to be outnumbered.'

'_How well are they armed?_' Harry asked grumpily.

'_It's pretty basic. Alpha team sighted two handguns and one shotgun_,' Tariq replied. '_I've rechecked the film they took and I can't see anything else. Not that night-vision cameras pick up much detail._'

'_Where's Thomas Hart? I want to see him. I want him to be able to hear me._'

Dimitri gazed up at them with a puzzled expression on his face. 'He's trying to get some sleep. I didn't think it was a good idea to let him know what was going on, yet. Less time to panic.'

'_You were right. But I've had an idea._'

A minute later and a young'ish man with short, dark hair, tattooed forearms and the stiff expression of the deeply frightened was sat at the cabin table clasping a mug of coffee with both hands. He wore a bluetooth headset and couldn't stop himself from flinching in surprise as Tariq patched him into the encrypted conference call.

'_Right then, Thomas, you're wired for sound,_' he declared cheerfully. 'T_he boss is about to give you your orders._'

'Orders?'

'_Listen very carefully,_' Harry drawled. '_Do exactly what I tell you or you're probably going to get shot._'

* * *

They sat in the trawler's dinghy, huddled next to the ship's hull, waiting for Daniel Dodds and his men. It was a still, clear night with a setting quarter moon and very little swell. Pretty lame weather for an operation in Dimitri's opinion; he preferred the wind in his ears and a dancing deck beneath his feet, especially when there were landlubbers to discomfit. He adjusted his grip on the elderly AK47 his Belfast colleagues had provided and yawned widely.

'_Beta observation team are in place,_' Harry said quietly, but very directly, through Dimitri's hidden ear-piece. '_They're behind a hedge next to the road and the Landrover has just passed them. The Crime Operations Department are providing back-up. There's a team with Beta obs, and the air support unit is on standby five minutes away._'

'_I've been doing some positional analysis of ops that went wrong,_' Tariq added. '_If it all goes pear-shaped, your best bet is to be in the water. In the dark._'

'_Oh, Tariq,_' Ruth sighed, '_you're the prince of tact this morning._'

'_Thanks, Ruth!_'

'_I was being sarcastic._'

'_Oh. Er, sorry Dimitri._'

A telltale skitter of light across the beach alerted Dimitri's partner for the night that their guests approached. 'Showtime,' he grunted, nodding towards land.

'Thanks, Dave,' Dimitri whispered, standing up in the prow of the dinghy. 'Right then, Thomas, just do as you've been told. If anyone starts shooting, hit the deck.'

'Fucking hell,' Thomas mumbled. 'Fucking, fucking _fuck!_'

On the beat of his last expletive he yanked the starter cord of the dinghy's outboard motor, taking the tiller and automatically adjusting throttle and choke as the motor roared. A hundred metres away on the beach the tinkerbell dancing of New ULF torchlight halted abruptly.

'Daniel!' Thomas yelled above the putt-putt-putt of the dinghy. 'We're coming over to fetch you. Stay where you are!'

Dave flipped a switch. Almost immediately, four balaclava'ed men were caught in the powerful beam of the spotlight they'd taken off the trawler and rigged to a spare 12-volt battery. The men literally froze like rabbits in the headlights. If it weren't for the gleam of gunmetal, the view would have been amusing.

'You said you'd leave us a boat!' someone yelled back angrily.

'Change of plans, Dan!' replied Thomas.

'You messing me around?'

'No, no! It's a bit rocky here. Just trying to be helpful.'

They were close to the shore. Wet rocks gleamed in the spotlight and Thomas killed the motor, tilting the propeller out of the water, letting the dinghy slide gently forward. Just before the boat could ground all three of them jumped out into the lazy surf, grabbing handles with their free hands and dragging the dinghy forward onto land. Once they were above the waterline, Dave not-quite-accidentally let the spotlight wobble so that Dimitri's gun-toting figure was lit up for a few moments.

'What the fuck is this?' Dodds bellowed. 'We had a deal!'

Thomas Hart shot Dimitri a furious glance as they walked forward. 'Of course we've got a deal, Dan,' he cajoled. 'But I have to be careful, this is serious. Makes me nervous. The bastard English police have already nearly had me once.'

'Where is it?'

'Onboard, of course.'

'Why didn't you bring it with you?'

'I need to see the money, first, Dan.'

'I need to see the... how do you say it? The _product_, Tom.'

'Well good! Hop in the boat and we'll do some business.'

The two groups were standing face-to-face. Still lit by the spotlight, eight men in black balaclavas staring warily at each other. Dimitri thanked God for the waist-high waders he, Dave and Thomas were wearing or he'd have had serious trouble telling people apart.

'We're not all fitting in that thing,' Dodds argued, waving dismissively at the dinghy.

'You're right there,' Thomas replied, his confidence building. 'Two of you and three of us will, though. That way your fellows can fetch the money while you check the merchandise. You can call them from the boat to let them know you're happy.'

'Two of you and three of us,' Dodds said.

'Two and two. And no guns.'

'Don't you trust me?' Dodds asked. He was very bad at hiding his unease.

Thomas shrugged. 'I don't trust anyone with this, and neither do you.'

'No guns, then. We search each other.'

'All right. My Georgian friend, Vlad, comes with me. He can show you how the thing works. Vlad, be a good man and pass Dave the Kalashnikov.'

Dimitri did as he was told and tried not to wail.

'_Did he say Georgian?_' Tariq hissed.

Ruth's tone was pedantic. '_I don't think Dimitri knows how to do a Moscow accent, let alone Georgian._'

'_Dimitri!_' Harry barked. '_Do your best and don't worry. These imbeciles won't know any different._'

For the life of him, the only thing he could think of was Robbie Coltrane playing a Russian mafia man in Goldeneye. 'I wull surch you nooow,' he growled despairingly.

Dodds stepped forward and held up his hands obligingly. Dimitri's right ear went silent for two whole seconds.

'_It's weirdly sort of Scottish but not too bad,_' Tariq said encouragingly.

'_Oh, God!_' Ruth whimpered. '_I'm sorry!_' And promptly burst out laughing.

He patted down Dodds' torso, managing to keep a straight face even though she seemed to be in imminent danger of laying an egg. It was as he knelt to check Dodd's legs and boots that he couldn't help grinning.

'_Ru-uth! Ruth!_' Harry was saying unsteadily, sounding suspiciously like a happy man rather than an impatient one. '_Ruth! Put a sock in it, for goodness sake!_'

* * *

By the time 10am and the JIC meeting arrived, Ruth had been working for five hours. She sat at a mahogany table in an oak-panelled room and eyed her companions with studied nonchalance. As a mere Section Head, Harry was not a statutory member of the JIC. Rather, he was an invited "advisor", summoned from relative obscurity on September 12th 2001 and outranked by the majority of committee members.

To Ruth's immediate right sat a dark-suited stranger who was poised to take the minutes of the meeting. To her left sat the Director of GCHQ. Not being the sort of employee who entertains more important people during office parties with witty repartee, she had never even spoken to him while working in Cheltenham. Since her move to MI5, and subsequent promotions, they had occasionally fought hammer and tongs over requests for internet surveillance that went well beyond GCHQ's remit and Ruth's level of authority. Anthony Vine was a mathematician and programmer at heart, and she wasn't sure whether the fact that she'd hacked his laptop once, just to make a point, counted for or against her.

'Updates first and then the major part of today's agenda,' said the chairman, all brisk efficiency. 'I should also introduce Ruth Evershed from Five, although I think most of you know her, and you definitely should know _of_ her.'

A couple of smiles and a couple of barely contained sneers. A general air of polite interest. Not bad for a once-dead girl who had dumped the Cheltenham geeks in favour of MI5 and unmasked a dodgy JIC chairman and an ex-Home Secretary. Not too bad at all, considering they all thought she and Harry had been on-and-off shagging for years.

'Could you kick off, Ruth?' the chairman enquired with a tight smile.

'Yes, of course. Right. Well, then. An operation to capture a Grade 2a weapon and shut down a Loyalist group known as the New Ulster Liberation Fighters has been running this week. The group planned to steal a rocket-propelled device with a thermobaric grenade from an inexperienced arms dealer. Our operatives posed as part of the dealer's outfit, gathered video evidence and foiled the attempted theft. The operation was completed at six am this morning and Harry Pierce is currently overseeing the interrogation of eight men.'

'What did they plan to do with the device?' the chairman asked.

'The target was Stormont,' Ruth replied gravely.

'Was it feasible?'

'The rocket has a range of one kilometre. A successful launch is definitely feasible. The castle's defences are equipped to cope with a conventional grenade but the consequences of a thermobaric explosion on the roof are currently unknown.'

'Christ!' the Deputy Chief of Defence Intelligence exclaimed. 'We'd have to redeploy! Did you not think to let us know? We could have assisted.'

'The barracks at Holywell are unpopular enough as it is. Officially, it was a Police Service operation, not a Security Service one, and _definitely_ not a military one. We restricted the number of our people on the ground to two field officers and four on surveillance.'

'Whose decision was that? Stuart Flintoff's?'

'No. Sir Harry's. The police are trying to investigate crimes committed during the Troubles and _that's_ still enough to start a riot. The Chief Constable is an old friend of his, and the operation was a chance to remind the general public about present-day police counter-terrorism efforts.'

'It's unusual for Harry to be so politically savvy,' the Director of MI6 remarked snidely.

Inwardly, Ruth seethed. She raised her eyebrows and said with apparent innocence, 'Oh, you know how he works: "In the End, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends."'

Sir Richard Dolby stifled a laugh. He sat forward in his chair and regarded Ruth with a marked increase in interest.

'We want full access to the detainees,' said the CIA representative.

'You're welcome to observe the interviews and question Robert Dormer again, if you like, but he, Hart and Dodds are staying where we put them.'

'Washington are pretty interested in this one.'

Ruth glared across the table. 'Probably because someone there bankrolled it! I'd tell them to keep their heads down for a little while longer if I were you. How successful have you been at tracking down the other devices?'

'Currently, we have four and you have one. We're waiting to hear from Australia.'

She thought of Sarah Caufield and continued to glare at Mr CIA until his eyes dropped. She cleared her throat and continued more calmly. 'Okay, so the voluntary worker applications for the 2012 Olympics have been building up. The vetting process has more than half of Section D's analysts occupied plus the team at GCHQ. As well as threats we've identified a number of potential informants and agents, so it's not all doom and gloom. Website traffic has slowed considerably in the last month and we're still on schedule. Any problems, Tony?'

Her old boss shook his head. 'It's been a bloody nightmare but there's light at the end of the tunnel.'

'There are currently only six high-level terrorist threats, the lowest number we've had for years. We've got quite a retro winter of discontent approaching in the form of industrial action and student activism, but we're happy to leave that to Section E.'

The newly appointed advisor on domestic extremism glowered at Ruth. He looked absolutely knackered and she felt only the tiniest prickle of sympathy. The Poll Tax riots and the miners' strikes seemed a lifetime away, and in the meantime she'd suffered a thousand of the sleepless nights that her colleague had avoided until recently.

'I think the only other thing I need to mention is the Talwar issue. Her parents have agreed that a guilty plea and Detention for Public Protection is the best route for all. It avoids a criminal trial and the girl is past caring. The submersibles were recovered the night after the attack, but we're still waiting for budgetary approval to replace the EMP device. It was adapted from a research project and there's no contingency plan.'

'No chance of refurbishment?' the chairman said hopefully.

'No. The technology was fifteen years old, there was serious below-ground structural damage, and we're lucky it worked at all. We'll be even luckier if Big Ben doesn't do a Leaning Tower of Pisa in the next six months.'

'That's an action point for the Intelligence and Security Committee. What's the probable cost of replacement?'

Ruth provided a figure. Even the CIA man gulped.

'According to our man in their banking sector, we're probably going to have to bail out the Republic of Ireland,' the Director of MI6 suggested once people had quietened down. 'Surely we can sneak an EMP or two in with that?'

'No doubt the parliamentarians think it's one aspect of security worth some money,' Ruth agreed.

'No doubt,' the Chairman replied drily. 'Sir Richard, do you have anything to add?'

The Director General of MI5 shook his head. 'Section E will take a while. I'm staying quiet today.'

And so it continued. For the first time in twenty years, the National Union of Students was being infiltrated by multiple agents. Links with the far left and the trade unions were under heavy surveillance. Hundreds of new email and social networking accounts were merrily being monitored and the number of new files being opened at Thames House had shot up since the general election. Meanwhile, Defence Intelligence was hanging by a thread, and had begun to concentrate on assessing the consequences of troop withdrawal from Helmand. MI6 were desperately tapping sources in Moscow to see if there was a similar spy ring in the UK to the one uncovered across the Atlantic. They'd even pulled a grumpy Lucas North in for two days of "brainstorming" and deported a Highland Bank employee – a personal assistant who happened to be half-Russian.

Half an hour later, it was GCHQ's turn.

'Cyber security,' Tony said slowly. 'Our new priority.'

'And the focus of today's meeting,' the chairman added, checking his watch with a flourish.

'As you know, in order to meet our cyber security objectives, a new department will be formed. At the moment, the favoured route is to set up our first "Virtual Section" with individuals from each of the intelligence services participating from their current centres of operation.'

'I didn't know that,' said Ruth.

Tony blinked at her. 'Well we are. We anticipate expansion of the CPNI at Thames House, Enterprise and IT at GCHQ and Technology at MI6.'

'So you want a team that never meets to defend our nation's information technology, working in places that are already the target of hundreds of cyber attacks per year, using whatever staff you can spare from other departments.'

'We're actively recruiting, actually.'

'You're trying to get high-performance graduates with experience of multiple platforms for less than thirty grand a year and no chance of individual enterprise or collaboration with industry. Is it going well?'

Tony pulled a face. Ruth looked smug. 'I didn't think so.'

'What would you do?' the chairman enquired mildly.

'It's true that for specific threats we need to utilise different resources. Potentially anything from a missile strike on an overseas target to a masquerade by an individual with world-class hacking skills. And technology changes so quickly that research is obviously key. But for short-term strategy and action there has to be a physical centre – a team that establishes priorities and coordinates operations and a far more covert computing presence.'

'Such as?'

'A separate location. With a server farm and processing power that's close to supercomputer standard. By now, we should really be starting to implement quantum networks between offices, too.'

'Why couldn't the section be based at GCHQ? Or with CPNI?'

'The most basic means of spreading risk is not having all your eggs in one basket. A separate location would be a big strategic advantage if and when someone launches a combined cyber and terror attack on one of our buildings. A close-knit team speeds up the decision-making and engenders trust. And... Well...'

'Go on.'

Ruth took a deep breath. 'We can't even police ourselves at the moment. GCHQ have lost umpteen laptops and think an annual equipment inventory is a big step forward! God knows how many USB sticks have deliberately found their way out of our offices, never mind being accidentally left on trains. Iphones are banned in Whitehall, ostensibly because we can't guarantee they are secure, but actually because we can't trust _anyone_ to use the technology responsibly, and despite all the money we've spent on network defence it still only takes me ten minutes to get into the Registry at Vauxhall Bridge! You'd have to be _insane_ not to get control of that side of things first. The prevailing electronic culture in our offices is too lax and simply won't change quick enough.'

'Personnel?'

Ruth stared at the ceiling as she hastily calculated. 'Intelligence summary and prioritisation. Specialists on software, networks, infrastructure and hardware. A couple of experienced hackers and dedicated liaison officers for each intelligence service, preferably with counterparts at each office. A Section Head and two team leaders – one for desk staff and one for the field.'

'How many people?'

'Enough to run a staff 24 hours a day. About twenty-five people full-time plus dedicated support. Bear in mind that the purpose is to coordinate the efforts of existing departments. It wouldn't work if their authority was constantly questioned by those called into action. Different intelligence services would actually have to _willingly_ cooperate!'

Several people were chuckling. Ruth turned away from the chairman and frowned. 'I get the impression I'm having my brain picked.'

'You might want to think of it as more of a job interview,' said the head of MI6 with a conspicuous lack of prickliness.

'You what?'

'Sir Harry will not be pleased,' Tony informed her with a grin. 'He's been campaigning to expand CPNI at Thames House – create a sort of Grid mark two – and you've gone and demolished that idea.'

Ruth opened her mouth to protest, thought about it for half a second and shut it again. Instead, she turned to the chairman of the JIC.

'Which service?'

'Five.'

'I'd need final approval on all appointments and I'd have to oversee recruitment.'

'Fair enough.'

'As a Section Head with cross-agency responsibilities my salary and benefits package would have to match Harry's.'

Sir Richard Dolby rocked back in his chair. 'Jesus, Ruth!'

She lifted her chin. 'It's equality or bust.'

'Should we make you a Dame while we're at it?'

She smiled sweetly. 'That will not be required.'

* * *

The meeting broke up half an hour later. Ruth stood and prepared to totter out of the room. Somehow or other she'd landed herself with the mother of all promotions and a change in office location. How the hell had it happened?

Harry obviously knew about the plans for Section G: Cyber Defence. Had been party to their inception and had attempted to influence the form the department took. But he hadn't said a word to her about the biggest intelligence shake-up since 2001 and he'd literally flown away from the strategy meeting. Ruth pondered this as she put her coat on and heaved her handbag onto her shoulder.

'You look like you could do with a drink,' Sir Richard remarked. 'Shall I buy you one?'

She looked up at him with a borderline stupefied expression on her face. 'Yes, please.'

He politely held the door for her and then guided her through a maze of corridors until they emerged onto an unpleasantly chilly Westminster street. His security man checked their surroundings and waved them onwards. In unspoken agreement they headed towards St Stephen's Tavern.

Once they had sat down at a table, and both had taken gratifyingly large gulps of their drinks, Sir Richard caught Ruth's eye. 'You really had no idea that was going to happen?'

'No. Harry hasn't said a word about it.'

'What the devil is he playing at?'

She sighed heavily and twiddled the stem of her wineglass. 'I think he's been trying to ensure that I get to this point under my own steam. He put me in an interview situation completely uninfluenced by his opinions. Made me say what I thought, make my own enquiries and negotiate my own terms.'

'Well, yes. But why not get you prepared? Nobody would be offended by a little bit of coaching.'

Ruth thought about coaching Harry on how _not_ to get the DG's job. The delicious fun of fancying each other rotten. Gentle flirtation and fuck me hard stares. She remembered telling Danny that his relationship with Zoe was enviable, even if an ocean and another man stood between them. The perspective of a thoroughly inexpert heart. Requited love was nearly more than she could bear, but unrequited? _God, no. Thank God no._ 'We're, um... we're seeing each other.'

'I'm afraid that's not news, Ruth.'

'I thought we'd learnt about the perils of exaggerated intelligence. It should be news. It's been happening for less than a week.'

Sir Richard nearly choked on his Scotch and water. '_What?_'

'Do you honestly need to know more?'

'No. No, I'm sorry.'

'When did cyber security get bumped up the policy agenda?'

'It's been continually expanding. But the committee was asked to report to the Prime Minister the week after the coalition government formed.'

'And when was I first touted as a potential Section Head?'

'As soon as the idea of a new section was put forward. In July. As far as I can remember, Anthony Vine mentioned you first. Said that at least you'd be able to translate cyber-speak into English for the rest of us.'

Ruth sipped her wine and smiled. 'Then Harry's done a good job. If he didn't suggest me, and I didn't even know there was a job in the offing, how could our relationship have affected my promotion?'

Sir Richard shrugged. 'I still don't know why he bothered. There's nobody else with your combination of skills and experience.'

'It matters to me,' said Ruth. 'And therefore it matters to him.'

_TBC_

Notes:

The Crime Operations Department is part of the Police Service of Northern Ireland. The remit of the department includes counter-terrorism.

Ruth quotes Martin Luther-King, Junior, to the Director General of MI6. It seems an apt description of Harry's idea of friendship – speaking up when times are hard is worth an awful lot.

Since WWII the CIA's London station chief is a courtesy member of the JIC. The Home Secretary is _not_. Apologies for the error in the previous chapter.

Detention for Public Protection is a type of sentence that is essentially open-ended. After a minimum term expires the onus is on the prisoner to show that they do not pose any threat to the community before they can be released. Following the Bulger trial there has been an effort to obtain guilty pleas and detentions of this type in serious cases involving minors. New restrictions on their use were added in 2008. I am not a legal expert, however, and not in a position to discuss this with any authority.

National Union of Students: Until recently, NUS activity was a long way from the student radicalism of the 1970s, there being more bickering about its own internal processes and negotiating retail discounts for its members than campaigning on particular student issues. However, there is a history of cooperation with single-issue campaign organisations and further back in time with the trade unions.

CPNI: Centre for the Protection of National Infrastructure, an MI5 department, for reals!


	6. Chapter 6

A big thank you to all the people who got through and reviewed chapter 5. Only about two lines of HR out of more than 4,000 words. Phew!

I have, at last, written some of the scenes I've been saving up for ages. Much fun was had. There are more than two lines involving Harry and Ruth. The full relevance of my note at the top of Chapter 1, about Harry not being the sort of person who holds back when he wants something, is hopefully explained.

The usual disclaimers apply.

* * *

**Not Close Enough**

'Last week I wished he was dead, but I already kind of miss him!' the girl moaned. 'What kind of a loser does that make me?'

'He's all you've known for a long time, Katie. It's bound to be hard, but it will get better,' Harry said gently. 'You've already done something incredibly brave.'

She pulled a tissue out of the packet that lay on the table between them and blew her nose wetly. 'Do you think?'

'I don't just think. I know.'

'What happens now?'

'The police already have a very strong case against Daniel Dodds and Thomas Hart, but it will help them enormously if you give them a formal statement about what's happened, and eventually testify at the trials.'

'No! I mean _now!_ I haven't even got anywhere to stay!'

Harry winced internally at his own insensitivity. He was out of practice when it came to twenty year-old, battered female informants. In the old days he would have said something to make her feel beautiful, at least for a moment or two, and palmed her off on a junior officer. Age and fatherhood had put paid to that strategy.

'Have you got any family in Belfast?'

'Mammy died when I was ten. There's Daddy, of course. And my little brother. But my Da would probably smack me harder than Daniel after the way I've behaved.'

'What do you mean?'

'We had a massive fight when I moved out. He said that if I left, he never wanted to see me again. _Ever!_ And now I just want to go _home!_'

She buried her face in her hands. Her whole body shook with snotty sobs. Harry sat on the other side of the table and wondered what to say.

'Listen, Katie. Hush. Listen to me. Dads say things they shouldn't when they're worried about their daughters. When they are angry and afraid. There's a chance he didn't mean it at all.'

'Yes he did!'

'I bet he didn't, and I should know. I've got a daughter, and we've had _terrible_ rows!'

'Really?'

'She threw a dinner plate at me and moved to Israel, once.'

Katie stared at him and sniffed loudly. 'That's pretty bad. What had you done?'

'I told her she was stupid. That travelling in the Middle East was a ridiculous thing to do. That she needed to grow up, and knuckle down, and get a proper job.'

'You didn't hit her or anything?'

Harry was genuinely scandalised and it showed. 'Of course not! She's my little girl!'

'How old is she?'

'Thirty.'

'That's not exactly little!'

He offered her another tissue. 'I could be ninety, and she could be sixty, and she'll still be my little girl. Phone your Dad. If you can bear to, tell him you're sorry. Ask him if you can come home.'

'And then what?'

'He'll probably want to hang flags. If he doesn't say anything, it's because he's trying not to cry. And anyway, if he tells you to piss off, there's always the Travelodge and the nearest pub. Then you can figure out exactly what you want to do with your new found freedom.'

Katie managed a smile. 'Thanks, Mr Farmer. Will you be around? When the trial starts, and stuff?'

Harry pushed his chair back and stood up. He held out his hand for a shake and managed not to pull a face at the clammy feel of her tear-dampened fingers. 'I doubt it. But I'll check up on things to make sure the police are looking after you.'

'Bye, then.'

'Good bye. And thank you.'

* * *

On the other side of the two-way mirror, Stuart Flintoff and a redheaded woman in police uniform stood side-by-side.

'Harry! You've turned into a proper softie!' Chief Constable Erin Flaherty taunted as he shut the interview room door.

'I may have mellowed,' he replied. 'I may just be a better actor.'

'Are you sticking around for a while?'

'No. No, I don't think so.'

Erin tilted her head. 'Is there any reason to go rushing back to London for the weekend?'

He tried to remind himself that she was just the cheeky little teenager he'd recklessly recruited several lifetimes ago (collecting glasses and emptying ashtrays in her father's pub had been excellent cover). Ever the sucker for a woman in authority, it didn't stop the formidable uniform and incisive gaze rendering him momentarily speechless.

Her eyebrows shot up. 'My God, you have got a reason!' she exclaimed. 'Who is she?'

Stuart's eyes ceased their tennis-watching flicker and pointed at Harry. 'She? There's a she? Don't tell me you and Ruth Evershed have _finally_ sorted yourselves out!'

'Ruth Evershed?' Erin repeated slowly. 'The girl who came back from the dead a year ago?'

'How do you know about that?' Harry exclaimed.

'Hmmm. In August 2006, the Chairman of the JIC stood down, and we heard that Ruth had committed both treason and suicide. Roll on September 2009 and she's back emailing the daily threat summaries. They come to my office, Harry, I couldn't help but notice.'

'I heard that her call sign is Lady Lazarus,' Stuart added. 'You'll like her, Erin, she's _cool_.'

'I hate that phrase,' Harry retorted automatically, a smile sneaking through anyway. 'But I suppose she is, really.'

Erin clutched Stuart's arm in apparent excitement. 'And when were you planning to tell me! You didn't mention _anything_ on the way from the airport.'

Stuart looked down at her. 'And you didn't even tell me Harry was coming. Don't think I've forgotten.'

Her face reddened. She let go of him so quickly it made Harry blink. 'I owed Harry a favour. He asked me to keep it quiet.'

Stuart leaned towards her ever-so-slightly. 'Even from me?'

'_Especially_ from you!'

Harry's jaw dropped. Then it began to work rapidly. 'The Chief Constable of the Northern Ireland police force is having an affair with the English MI5 boss. Oh, Jesus, Mary, _mother_ of God!'

Erin folded her arms and scowled. 'It's not an affair. My marriage annulment came through. It only took ten years and fifty grand.'

'I'm sorry. I didn't know. But I always said he was a tosser.'

'And I always thought Jane was a horse-faced, snobby cow.'

Stuart cleared his throat. 'Don't mind me.'

'I _do_ mind you!' Harry snapped. 'Of all the irresponsible, inconsiderate, dangerous things to do. We can bring you home if things get tricky, but Erin is risking far too much!'

'Which is exactly what I told her. Repeatedly. Until she resorted to—'

'—Please, at least _try_ not to make me sound desperate, Stu!'

'I'll resign,' he added quickly. 'Move back to Belfast in another guise after a year or so. That'll do the trick.'

Erin went red again. 'Don't you dare! You'll make an excellent replacement for Harry when he finally gets killed or retires. I'm eight years older than you, and I've already had this job for five years. If anyone is going to resign, it's me.'

'Enough!' Harry shouted. 'You've got six weeks to figure out what you're going to do. Stuart, I'm either recalling you to Thames House or you're out. Erin, I think he's a lot nicer than your pig of a husband, but I'm not sure he's worth a career.'

'Fine!' she yelled back. 'Swoop in and turn my life upside down. It's always, "Do as I say, not as I do," with you, isn't it? Fuck you very much, Harry! You haven't even had the decency to tell us why you came over!'

'I have a plane to catch,' he said flatly. 'If one of you can pull yourself together enough to lend me a car, that would be very useful.'

Erin's eyes narrowed. 'We've done better than that. We've got a full cavalcade lined up for you outside the station. Motorcycle outriders and everything.'

It was a low blow. 'You _wouldn't!_'

'Try me. Every single employee at Aldergrove airstrip is going to know that you're a genuine VIP. I'll send your photo to the ferry port as a murder suspect if I have to. Whether or not I owe you a favour, you're not bloody sneaking in to my town again!'

'Of course, she could just cancel it all,' Stuart drawled. 'If you, for example, told us why you decided that this operation, out of the _numerous_ ops we've run this year, was so important.'

'I fail to see—'

'—Except it wasn't, was it?' Stuart pressed. 'In fact, I discovered yesterday that a little bird contacted my best agent handler and told him – no matter how trivial it really was – to inform Ruth Evershed of a serious terrorist threat in Northern Ireland at the start of this week.'

'A threat that she would definitely have to brief Section D on,' said Erin – proving that she'd heard all about Ruth before cornering Harry. 'And bingo! On Wednesday, you phone me out of the blue and ask me for a lift from the airport.'

Harry put his hands up in a gesture of surrender. 'It's nothing you need to worry about. I've just been... sorting things out a bit.'

'What sort of things?' Stuart asked. 'Good things? Or bad things?'

'Hopefully good,' Harry replied cryptically. 'So far, so good. I'm not sure what the reaction to the latest developments will be like, though.'

'Harry, in all seriousness, do we really only have six weeks?'

'You know this can't go on. If the press find out, they'll slaughter Erin. For all we know, someone might _actually_ try to slaughter Erin.'

Stuart nodded. 'I know. But promise me you'll talk to us. Give us a little bit of extra time if we need it?'

'Promise me you _won't_ call Ruth as soon as I take my eyes off you, and tell her about my instructions to your agent handler?'

'Deal.'

* * *

She couldn't concentrate. It was Friday afternoon; she had drunk two glasses of wine at lunchtime and discovered that the DG might not be as big a wanker as Harry thought he was. She was leaving the Grid, but hopefully not leaving Harry.

The nerves associated with telling him, combined with anger at his blatant high-handedness, combined with excitement about seeing him, sent her out of his office, through a pod and into the corridors of Thames House before she registered a desire to move. She walked through a door to one of the minor staircases and trekked downwards six floors to the Registry. With any luck, someone from IT Services would be on hand to show her around the server farm and bore her into calmness with tales of parallel processing.

It was a surprise when she bumped into Lucas, but not a shock. Not until he met her eye, and smiled, and all she could see in his expression was fear.

* * *

The Friday evening BMI flight to Heathrow was so busy that the staff kicked up a fuss about the size of Harry's suitcase and made him check it in. By the time he had retrieved it from a baggage carousel, and made his way to the pick-up point, it was nearly ten o'clock.

Mike was behind the wheel of a Lexus. Ruth was leaning against the side of the car with her coat buttoned right up and her hair tucked behind her ears. It occurred to Harry that if music were to play, it would be the Hallelujah chorus.

'Hello, you,' he murmured, not even pausing in his stride, but simply dropping his suitcase handle and walking into a kiss.

'Oi! She gasped eventually. 'I've got a bone to pick with you.'

'Mmmm... In a minute...'

* * *

It was a lot longer than a minute before they got to her house, and she hadn't yet picked his bones clean.

He stood in her bedroom and let the impressions seep into his consciousness in whatever order they fancied. Perfume: not too musky, not too sweet, not the same as she'd worn before she went away. Clean clothes: fabric conditioner that seemed to retain its scent more than his own did. Bedclothes: the faintest aroma of sleepy Ruth.

He took his suit jacket off, dropped it on a chair and sat on the end of the bed. He loosened his tie and eyed the surrounding clutter of femininity with unabashed nosiness. There appeared to be a whole bowlful of hair ties and pins on her dressing table, yet he couldn't remember seeing her with her hair up for years. She used a deodorant that said it didn't leave white marks and a cocoa butter moisturiser. She did not seem to rely on a vast raft of lotions, potions or makeup.

The room was both conventional and fairly tidy, which disappointed Harry slightly. He'd always imagined Ruth's bedroom as some kind of _Thousand and One Arabian Nights_ retreat from reality. The scent of spices in the air, swathes of gorgeous silks, manuscripts littering surfaces and a distinct lack of electric light. She rarely wore as much as seven veils during such mental forays; she also had a tendency to say annoyingly cryptic things and hover just out of reach. On the whole, he decided that an Ikea wardrobe, a cream carpet and the words, 'I've got to put some washing on; do you want a cup of tea?' were vastly preferable.

Ruth moved awkwardly, knowing that Harry was watching as she hoiked an armful of laundry out of a basket in the corner and bustled off to the kitchen. She put the kettle on, got the washing going and then made three mugs of tea. Beth leaned against the kitchen counter, eyes alive with incipient teasing.

'He's probably going through your knicker draw.'

Ruth shot her a look.

'You haven't got a box of mementos under the bed, have you?'

'What?'

'Secret, personal things. Little notes. Photos?'

'Have you searched my room?'

'No I haven't! Scout's honour. But I bet Harry will. Right now, in fact.'

'He will not.'

Beth grinned wickedly. 'Have you done any "exploring" at his house?'

Ruth looked horrified. She picked up two mugs and shot back to her bedroom, turning to awkwardly push the door handle down with her elbow and shove the door open with her hip. The sight that awaited her wasn't quite what she'd expected. At some point in the last five minutes, Harry had kicked his shoes off and crawled onto her bed. He was curled up on his side and apparently fast asleep. She was almost ashamed of how adorable she thought he looked, but it didn't prevent her from very quietly putting the tea down on the bedside table, kneeling on the floor and reaching under the bed.

The black holdall still held traces of Cypriot dust. The hair she'd carefully caught in the zip was still in place. Three thousand dollars, three thousand Euros and three thousand pounds were still tucked at one end, a British passport in the name of Ruth Turpin at the other. Her 1930s copy of Ovid's _Amores_ still had a tiny scrap of paper marking the description of Corinna's voyage:

_I'll be the first to sight your boat from the shore, and say: 'It carries my goddess!'_

_I'll bear you to land on my shoulders, snatch disordered kisses..._

A birthday present from Harry more than four years ago. A hopelessly romantic invitation to intimacy, if it weren't for the fact that they'd never even mentioned the book's existence to each other.

Ruth ran a finger across the page, looked up at the real thing, and couldn't bring herself to wake him up just so she could have a go at him.

* * *

He woke with a jerk and a wordless mutter, blinked rapidly and rubbed his face with one hand. The room was dark except for a small bedside light, partially obscured from view by a familiar silhouette.

'What time is it?' he croaked.

'Just gone midnight.'

'Oh, God. I'm sorry.'

'Don't be. I was catching up on a little light reading.'

He squinted at Ruth and realised what book she was holding. 'Crikey. You kept hold of that?'

'It was in my desk at work. Zaff thought I might like it, and brought it with him that night.'

They were entering dangerous territory. He reached up a hand, silently asking permission to take the book. Ruth passed it to him and watched his face carefully.

'I looked for it,' he admitted, opening it at random and not reading. 'I went to your house and scoured your bookshelves before your mother arrived, but it wasn't there.'

'I couldn't bear to open it for a year. And then I read it cover to cover. And the next time George asked me out for a drink, I said yes.'

'It's actually quite easy to love two people at the same time, isn't it?' Harry said quietly, passing the book back. 'I did once. And I was married.'

'Juliet?'

'I'm afraid so. If it weren't for you, I'd have to admit that I have diabolical taste when it comes to women.'

Ruth smiled. 'If it weren't for George, I'd say the same about myself and men.'

'Ha! True. I'm so glad you were happy. And I'm so sorry I fucked things up.'

'You didn't.' She closed Ovid, put him carefully on the bedside table and turned towards Harry. 'I didn't tell George the truth. I didn't let him make an informed decision about me. He never would have forgiven me for that. We were finished before I even saw you again.'

'But the choice I made—'

'Is the one you would have made with anyone, at any time. It was painful, but it wasn't personal. Mani was mostly to blame. I was partly to blame. You were just being consistent.'

Harry looked away. 'I thought so at the time. I really did. But now I'm not so sure. If it was you with a gun to your head, I think I might tell.'

'But you don't know for certain.'

'No.'

'Then we just have to make absolutely sure that the decision never arises.'

'Exactly!'

'Harry! I _distinctly_ remember a conversation we had earlier this week in a hotel room, all about context and instinct. About being able to decide at the time if we had to!'

'No. That was about _you_ being able to think of something if _you_ had to. Me? I never said I'd sacrifice you for the lives of many, you just assumed that I would. Well bugger that! I've had a much better idea.'

Ruth put on a stern voice and sat up properly. 'I take it that's why you've seen fit to mastermind a reshuffle of the entire British security services. So you can have me working in a bloody _bunker_ for the rest of my life, safely sealed in with a bunch of computer geeks!'

'Ah. You've figured it out, then.'

'Section G.'

He rolled onto his back, crossed his ankles and folded his hands across his stomach. He smiled at the ceiling. 'I'm very proud of Section G. In fact, I think it might just be my greatest achievement.'

'_Harry!_'

'You've got to admit, you always get into a pickle when you're in the field.'

She hit him with a pillow. He burst out laughing. She hit him again.

'Does that mean you're going to turn the job down?' he asked, grabbing the pillow with one hand and removing it from her grip by dint of being surprisingly strong.

'I bloody well ought to!' she squeaked, resorting to poking him in the chest with an indignant forefinger. 'Of all the despicable, bossy, high-handed—'

'—Devoted, devious, ruthless bastards_. I_ can distinctly remember you telling me that you fell in love with the awkward bits too.'

She folded her arms and harrumphed. 'If you think I'll marry you after this, you've got another thing coming!'

Harry finally sat up. He looked fairly ridiculous sat cross-legged in his suit trousers and blue socks. His hair was sticking out at the back and his tummy strained at his shirt buttons. 'Oh, no,' he said firmly. 'I've had my shot at asking you to marry me, and I'm clearly rubbish at it. And I'm not some effete Peter Whimsy type who can trot out pretty proposals with appropriate quotations at the drop of my top hat!'

'Fine!'

'I don't take "no" very well, either.'

'Clearly not. There's really no need to say any more about it.'

'Good. If you want to get married, you'll just have to sort it out yourself.'

Ruth paused. 'All right, then.'

'Good,' Harry repeated more gently. He leant forwards and kissed her on the cheek. 'I tell you what. I'm really hungry. Is there anything for dinner?'

* * *

TBC

Note:

The passage of Ovid's _Amores_ comes from Book II Elegy XI. The translation is by A.S. Kleine (2001) and permission has been given for reproduction online for non-commercial purposes.


	7. Chapter 7

The penultimate chapter! Sorry this has been a while coming. It's loose-ends time and this has been sitting three-quarters written for ages while I ponder them.

**Mature content alert/advert. Major series nine spoilers.** The usual disclaimers apply.

* * *

**Not Close Enough**

'Having a bath together is nice, in theory.'

'But?'

'But I bet you like the water really hot.'

'Mmmm, lovely. And?'

'I don't. I can't stand it. It hurts enough to be classed as torture.'

Ruth fought the disappointment that began to well up as one of her fantasies started to shrivel. 'A hot bath certainly puts the comfy chair and the cushion into a different perspective.'

Harry smiled. 'Perhaps there's some sort of unacknowledged male agreement about publicised methods of inducing pain. If secret services were female dominated, I think the techniques would have branched out more.'

'What else would they include?'

'High street Christmas shopping, for one. And that film of Mama Mia could reduce the strongest male agent to tears.'

'I'll bear that in mind.'

'I know you will. Which is why I'm not volunteering any more titbits on how to manipulate me.'

'Damn. I'll just have to do my own research.'

They smiled at each other across their corner of the dinner table and ate the last of their pasta and pesto midnight feast.

'You're sure about the bath thing?' Ruth said, putting her fork down and sitting back.

'Yes. Sorry. We could try having the water at my temperature, but unless it's the middle of the summer, I think you'll end up getting all shivery and uncomfortable.'

'That sounds like the voice of experience.'

'Hmmm.'

'It doesn't sound like much fun.'

Harry shook his head, took stock of her expression and immediately set his mind to work on the negotiation of terms. 'How about I load the dishwasher and then come and scrub your back? I can jump in after you.'

She had to catch her breath before agreeing. It was really happening. She was actually _going out_ with Harry Pearce.

* * *

'It's two in the morning...'

He pulled her flush against him, trying to feel as much warm, clean, cocoa buttery skin as possible. There was a short silence as both of them inwardly whimpered their pleasure and instinctively sought a kiss.

'It's Saturday now,' he murmured, one hand sliding along the back of her thigh. 'No field ops planned.' His hand made the return trip, easing her legs apart. 'No meetings,' he continued, stroking her bottom and dipping exploratory fingers between her thighs from behind to see if she would respond. 'No need to go into the office.' His voice broke on the last word. Oh, yes. That worked.

'Do you mean we can have a bit of a lie-in?' Ruth enquired, faux-innocence belied by heavy eyelids and delightfully naughty hands of her own.

'Uh-huh.' He eased her onto her back and wiggled down the bed in happy preparation, peppering her with kisses _en route_.

'Where are you going?' she asked lightly. Knowingly.

'Where do you think?' he replied, a smile apparent in his voice. 'It's bye-bye, Jameson's, hello, Evershed's. The finest specimen I've ever encountered. Aged for forty years and absolutely ready for tasting.'

* * *

'Harry. Now. Now. _Please?_'

He wiped his face on the duvet and looked up. God almighty, she was _glorious_. 'How?'

'Like your dream? You know?'

He helped her turn over, was inside her as quick as they could manage. He rested his face against her spine for a moment, tasting her skin. Breathing her in. Holy fucking hell, he couldn't slow down if his life depended on it. She pushed back against him, apparently feeling the same; face hidden, shoulders gleaming in the light from the bedside lamp, cunt unbelievably hot. His dreams never came true, but sometimes reality completely bloody trounced them.

* * *

At nine o'clock on Saturday morning, Mike, Beth and Ruth sat in the front of the van and planned their strategy. Inside, Harry was practicing his aftermath basking and was still fast asleep.

'Not IKEA,' Ruth said firmly. 'John Lewis.'

'Have you had a pay rise?' Beth replied.

She ignored the question. 'I want proper bookshelves that will last forever. Solid wooden ones that I have to stand on tip-toe for to reach the top shelf.'

'Do they have to be new ones?' Mike asked shyly. 'Or would second-hand stuff do? Antique stuff?'

'I don't know much about it,' Ruth admitted. 'I'd love some antique bookshelves, but in London I wouldn't know where to look without getting ripped off.'

'A mate of mine works for a house clearance company. They've got a warehouse down near Gatwick. I could give him a call, and we could go and have a look, if you like.'

'Really? I wouldn't want to put you out.'

'It's no bother. He might be able to tell me if it's worth driving over or not. Hang on.' He pulled his phone out of his pocket, jumped out of the van and started dialling. A couple of minutes later, he climbed back in, asked Ruth to get the portable Sat-Nav out of the glove compartment and set about entering an address. 'It looks like an hour's drive,' he told them. 'What do you think?'

'Let's do it,' Beth said immediately.

Ruth was in the middle of yawning widely. She waved an apologetic hand. 'Sorry! I didn't get to sleep until late. Yes, let's go.'

Mike started the engine and eased the van into the road. Beth stared determinedly out of the windscreen. When they got to the turning, two pairs of laughing eyes met briefly.

'How late did you get to sleep?' Beth asked casually.

Instantly beetroot, Ruth covered her face with her hands. 'Shut up.'

'Was it _very_ late?'

'Shut up.'

'We could stop for some coffee, if you like,' Mike suggested.

She peered through her fingers at him disbelievingly. 'Oh, don't you start as well!'

* * *

They got back at half past twelve. Ruth charged triumphantly into the flat and found Harry with his feet on the coffee table, Scarlet on his lap and Football Focus on the telly.

'You've been home!' she said.

'And came back. I thought you might expect me to still be here.'

'Can you give us a hand unloading the van?'

'Van? What?'

'Mike and Beth are downstairs, but we could do with another bloke. They weigh a ton!'

'Mike? _They?_'

She bent over and gave Scarlet a hello scratch behind the ears. 'I've got bookcases! Proper ones! I can get the rest of my stuff out of storage at last! Bless Malcolm for convincing Mum to let him sort it all out for her.'

_Bless me for threatening Malcolm with GCHQ if he didn't._ 'Oh. Wow. Okay. I'll put some shoes on.'

He met Beth on the stairs. She was lovingly carrying an art deco mirror and smiling in greeting. 'Hiya! Mike's waiting for you. God knows how you're going to get them inside.'

Mike was wearing jeans and a jumper, too. He and Harry looked at each other for a moment and wisely decided not to mention how weird they felt being off-duty together after more than ten years of strictly professional friendliness. Harry looked in the back of the van and swore quietly.

They managed it. Just. With lots of creative language and one dent in the staircase wall.

'Do you need some help at your house?' Ruth asked, handing Mike a mug of tea. 'Loading up for the tip?'

'No, it's okay. I can manage,' he replied, dragging his sleeve across his forehead in an attempt to mop up the sweat.

'But would it help?' Harry said suddenly. 'I can come, if you like.'

'Oh, I don't know... The Missus isn't expecting anyone.'

'Give her a call, then. Tell her I don't bite.'

'That's not what Ruth says!' Beth called from the kitchen.

Mike very nearly inhaled tea. Ruth turned outraged eyes on Harry and pointed in the direction of the kitchen door. 'Imagine what the Grid will be like when people find out!'

'Don't be ridiculous,' Beth scoffed as she walked towards them. She passed Harry a mug and sipped from her own. 'I did some very, _very_ careful asking around this week. Everybody on the Grid _does_ know. Everybody knows there's something going on. Everybody knows that the subject is completely and utterly off-limits. The word is that the last person who started some gossip about you disappeared three days later and hasn't been heard from since.

'Well that's true,' Harry admitted as Mike nodded in agreement.

'But you've done nothing but laugh at me,' Ruth said to Beth. 'And now you're even starting on Harry!'

'Er, yeah. Of course! It's the single housemate's prerogative to make the happy couple feel awkward. It's designed to stop you canoodling on the sofa while I'm trying to watch CSI.'

'Heaven forbid,' Harry said dryly. 'I rather like CSI.'

* * *

Monday morning found Harry back in his office and Ruth back at her desk. The Australians had tracked down the last thermobaric grenade, the FBI had torn two more churches in Oklahoma apart, and BBC News 24 were having a lovely time finding various "security experts" for interviews.

Around mid-morning, he called her into a meeting with the lawyers. They checked through all the surveillance warrants and signed one case over to the Crime Operations Unit in Belfast and the other over to Serious and Organised Crime.

'You can update the handover document,' he told her, once they were alone. 'And then you hand it over to me again.'

'The official end of my stint as acting Section Head.'

'I think I'll keep a version as a little memento.'

They were trying to think of excuses to keep talking when Harry's phone rang. He glanced at the internal extension number, grimaced and picked up the call. 'Sir Richard? Oh? Yes, hang on.' He cocked his head. 'The DG. For you. Should I be jealous?'

Ruth smirked and held out a hand for the phone. She perched on the edge of Harry's desk and met his eye. 'Hello? Oh, hi there. A lovely weekend, thank you. And you? Ooh, very nice.'

Harry covered his face with his hands and moaned theatrically. 'I'm just not important enough for her any more. I should have known this would happen!'

'James Hackett,' Ruth continued, louder, sticking her tongue out at him while Sir Richard spoke to her. 'No, I haven't found anything specific, I'm afraid. Do you think we could try the thing I suggested? You can this evening? That's great! Let me make a few calls and then I'll confirm with you this afternoon. I'll call at three. Bye for now.'

She handed the receiver back to Harry and was rewarded with a glower worthy of an injured teddy bear. 'You shameless hussy! There I was thinking I was all special and things, and it turns out you're just very good at charming the boss!'

'He's a happily married man, I'll have you know. You may have masterminded my departure from the Grid, but you're not going to get rid of me that easily.'

'Gosh, that's annoying.'

'Harry?'

'Ruth.'

'I'm going for a drink in one of the House of Commons bars tonight. Will you come with me?'

'Will the D-bloody-G be there?'

'Not exactly. Not at first, anyway. But I do owe him a couple, and I'll buy them if he wants to drink them. He's my new boss, and unlike you, I can't just see him at the club if need be!'

The Traveller's Club, unfailingly popular with security services officers above a certain pay grade, remained stalwartly men-only. He had the sense to look apologetic. 'I suppose you've got a point. Just tell me when we need to leave and how straight my tie has to be.'

* * *

During the noughties, the Strangers Bar, so called because MPs could entertain their guests there, became something of a Labour back-bench bastion. It got to the point where members of the political press snidely opined that no regular Strangers drinker would ever amount to anything, and ambitious MPs avoided it like the plague. Since the general election, and the forming of the "glorious coalition" of which the Home Secretary was an important part, the bar had managed to reinvent itself somewhat. The uneasy truce between Conservative and Liberal Democrat MPs extended as far as their preferred pints (but not often as far as sharing tables); they all had to be much more careful about their expenses than their predecessors; the booze was subsidised.

Thus it was that William Towers found himself plonking a pint of London Pride down on a table at which Ruth Evershed and Sir Harry Pearce were already sat, sharing the side that faced the room and conversing in inaudible tones.

'I'm still not sure about this place, you know,' he told them a little querulously as he lowered his bulk onto the opposite chair. 'You'd better not be making me look foolish.'

'Aren't you're more likely to start a trend?' Harry replied lightly. 'Where the holder of one of the three great offices of state chooses to quaff his ale, others must surely follow.'

'You'd think. More likely they'll be taking the piss out of me in the political columns tomorrow. Someone will Tweet, and then it will be blogged, and then my Monday evening drinkies will be News.'

'Perhaps it's best to Tweet about it first, and say you are indulging the new girlfriend of a friend of yours,' Ruth said.

The Home Secretary looked at his Blackberry thoughtfully. 'Would that work, I wonder?'

Harry slid his arm around Ruth's shoulders and she settled comfortably against him. Towers blinked at them and then chortled appreciatively. 'You spooks. Frustrated actors the lot of you, I reckon. Still, you do look the part.'

Ruth smiled. 'Thank you for coming at such short notice. I thought you'd like to be here because it means you can perpetuate or suppress the rumours to the extent you want.'

'What rumours? Harry, what is she talking about?'

'I don't know what she's got planned either,' Harry told him. 'She doesn't work for me any more.'

'No! I hear congratulations are in order. Any ideas where the new section will be?'

'Hopefully somewhere outside London but not far. The less structural work, the more I've got to spend on technology, but there has to be flexibility to develop – we don't know what priorities will be like in another five years.'

Harry winced. 'Shhh! We're not supposed to admit that to the politicians.'

'Not all of us are completely daft, however,' Towers retorted. 'There's trouble brewing in North Africa. The Foreign Office are extremely worried. Six may well be on the rise again, but they'll need all the support they can get.'

'Wonderful.' Harry promptly gulped his whiskey. 'Ready for another, Ruth?'

She lifted a hand to the thumb that was rubbing her shoulder and arrested its movement, interlacing their fingers and effectively holding him in place. 'Hang on for a bit,' she said quietly. 'It's show time.'

The Home Secretary raised his eyebrows, squeaked his chair sideways and stretched his legs out in front of him: a man desirous of more room to relax. It meant that he could watch out of one eye. James Hackett, wearing his one good suit and carefully drinking lager, was sat on a tall stool at the bar, chatting to an earnest Lib Dem lady about student tuition fees.

Parliamentary researchers usually frequented the Sports and Social Bar downstairs. Hackett looked a little bit self-conscious, but so far, he had done an admirable job of not staring at Harry and Ruth – something she had been _very_ firm about on the phone that afternoon. When the Director General of MI5 leaned on the bar next to him, performed a creditable double-take and exclaimed, 'James! Good to see you! How are you?' his eyes darted in their direction for only the briefest of moments.

'Hello, Sir Richard! I'm good, thank you. And yourself?'

'Pretty well, James, pretty well. Bit busy at the moment. You know how it is.'

The captured Antrim grenade, and suspected links with a man arrested on terror charges in London, had been wall-to-wall news all day. Everybody in the Strangers Bar knew it. The vast majority of people knew who Sir Richard was, as well, and those who didn't were currently being quietly informed. He wasn't one of those people whose picture appeared in the papers; he didn't have a Facebook page. He was one of those people who walked past you in a Whitehall corridor and elicited knowing smiles and "you know who that is" whispers from your companions.

James Hackett grinned appreciatively at being honoured with an oblique reference to work of National Importance. 'I can imagine things are a bit hectic. How's Alex?'

'He's fine. Still living up north. I never thought that sending a son to Durham meant he wouldn't come back.'

'It's a lovely city. We had a fantastic time at Uni.'

'I know, I know. His mother misses him, though. He doesn't come down to visit as much as he ought to.'

'My Mum always says the same. I'll have to get in touch with him and see if he fancies a night out.'

'You do that. Tell him we've asked you over for Sunday lunch and you're too shy to come without moral support.'

That elicited a genuine laugh from Hackett. The eyes of the Lib Dem lady positively bulged with gossip. Harry and the Home Secretary both turned to stare at Ruth.

'It'll be all over Westminster by tomorrow lunchtime,' Towers murmured. 'Bloody hell, Ruth.'

'Never mind the Prime Minister, nobody will dare try to nobble a personal friend of the DG,' Ruth replied smugly. 'His son and James were at Durham together. Graduated the same year. They do actually know each other slightly, but James didn't realise who Alex's dad was.'

'And here he is,' Harry added, removing his arm from Ruth's vicinity far, far too late. 'Good evening, Sir Richard.'

'Harry. Ruth. Fancy seeing you here. Together.'

'Richard!' Towers said brightly, hooking a foot around the leg of a nearby chair and pulling it closer. 'Sit here and pretend to brief me. You'll do wonders for my credibility.'

Sir Richard sat. 'Billy, old chap, are you having a vain day?'

'Image is important,' Towers replied primly. 'As you well know.'

Ruth caught Harry's eye. _Billy, eh?_ his expression said. _I dare you_.

'We should be going,' he declared.

'Yes,' Ruth said. 'It's lovely to meet you, Billy,' she added loudly for the benefit of the room.

The Home Secretary grinned and stood up as she did, followed swiftly by Harry and Sir Richard. He made a show of helping her into her coat and enquiring about her plans for the evening.

Sir Richard took the opportunity to speak to Harry. 'I know how these things spread, and you'll probably get asked about it by your team. There was a touch of unpleasantness in Human Resources today. Someone got caught with their fingers in the till and we had to let them go.'

'Oh?'

'Chap called Stephen Owen from Section C. Level Seven access.'

'I know him. He's the infant prodigy.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Recruited due to his compulsive computer hacking skills at the age of fourteen. We taught him Arabic, put him through a history degree at Manchester, and had him keeping an electronic eye on all the internet cafes he could manage. When he graduated, Section C took him on here.'

'Well he paid himself £24,000 that we know about, and goodness knows what else. We found the transfer after the mainframe crash the other day.'

'Woops.'

'Quite. Anyway, he's been charged with fraud. Should you get any enquiries.'

'Of course. Thanks for letting me know.'

* * *

The Home Secretary and the Director General swallowed beer in sync. 'How long have they been an item?' Towers asked casually.

'He's been besotted with her for years, thank God,' Sir Richard replied. 'I've given him a free rein on the strict understanding that he leaves the Nightingale fall-out to me. He was on the verge of expelling every CIA operative in London after Ros Meyers and Andrew Lawrence were killed.'

'Good grief. That would have caused a stir.'

'It would have been a disaster. Our troops in Afghanistan are absolutely reliant on American air support. It was made very clear to me that the more noise we made about Nightingale, the slower the helicopters would get.'

'So we like Ruth, then?'

'We do.'

'And Section G?'

'We actually _need_ that.'

'Good. Because a billion pounds is a lot of money to pay just to get Harry Pearce a decent love-life.'

TBC

* * *

Notes:

Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition! Comfy chair and cushion courtesy of Monty Python.

For the international audience, going out = going steady/dating exclusively. It's a slightly teenaged term.

Check out Stephen Owens' employee information. Series 9, episode 4, about 34 minutes 58 seconds in. Age 22, higher access than a section chief, eight years agent experience. WTF? I want to know his story!

The security budget has indeed increased by a billion ;-)


End file.
